CIHM 
Microfiche 
Series 
(l\/lonographs) 


ICI\1H 

Collection  de 
microfiches 
(monographies) 


Canadian  Inatttuta  for  Hiitorical  Mlcroraproduction*  /  Institut  Canadian  da  mlcroraproductiom  hiatoriqua* 


1995 


Ttdinical  ind  BiWiofraphic  Notn  / 

Thf  Institun  hoi  itMinptMl  to  obtain  tiM  bat  erifiml 
copy  availabi*  fof  lilmmg.  FMturat  of  ihh  copy  whidi 
may  ba  MMiograpbieally  uniqiM,  which  may  ahar  any 
at  tha  imagai  in  tha  rapraductian.  or  which  may 
lignificantly  ehan«a  tha  usual  mathod  of  filminf,  ara 
chackad  balow. 


D 
D 
D 


Colourad  eovari/ 
Couvartura  da  coulaur 

Co«an  damaiad/ 
Couiartura  andomraagte 

Covan  raitoiad  and/or  laminatad/ 
Cou>anun  raatauria  at/ou  pallieuMa 


□  CoMr  titia  minina/ 
La  titra  da  cou«artura  manqua 


D 
D 
D 
D 
0 


Colourad  mapt/ 

Cartas  gtographiqun  an  ooulaur 

Colourad  init  (i.a.  othar  than  Uua  or  black)/ 
Encra  da  coulaur  (i.a.  autra  qua  Maua  ou  notral 

Colourad  platas  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planchas  at/ou  illustradont  an  coulaur 

Bound  with  othar  malarial/ 
Ralii  anc  d'autras  doeumants 


,  I  Tight  binding  may  eauia  shadows  or  distortion 
'^  I  along  intarior  margin/ 

La  raliura  sarria  paut  cauiar  da  I'ombra  ou  da  la 
dittorsion  la  long  da  la  marga  intiriaura 


D 


Blank  laavas  addad  during  rastoration  may  appaar 
within  tha  taxt.  Whanarar  possiMa.  thasa  han 
baan  omittad  from  filming/ 
II  »  paut  qua  cartainas  pagas  blanches  ajoutias 
tors  d'una  rastauration  apparaissant  dans  la  taxta, 
mait,  lorsqua  cala  itait  possiWa.  cas  pagas  n'ont 
pat  M  film<as. 


□  Additional  commantt:/ 
Commantairas  supplamantairas: 


Nolas  laehniquas  at  bibliographiquas 

L'Institut  a  microfilmi  la  maillaur  aiamplaira  qu'il 
lui  a  M  possibia  da  sa  procurer.  Las  ditailt  da  cat 
axamplaira  qui  sont  paut-<tra  uniquas  du  point  da  «u 
bibliographjqua.  qui  pausint  modif  iar  una  imaga 
raproduita.  ou  qui  paunnt  axigar  una  modification 
dans  la  mMioda  normala  da  f  ihnaga  sont  indiqu«s 
ci-dassous. 

□  Colourad  pagas/ 
Pagas  da  coulaur 

□  Pagts  damagad/ 
Pagas  andommagtas 

□  Pagn  rastorad  and/or  laminatad/ 
Pagas  rastaur«as  at/ou  pallicul«as 

0  Pagas  diseokwrad.  ttainad  or  foxad/ 
Pagas  dicoleriat.  tachatias  ou  piquias 

□  Pkgas  datachad/ 
Pagas  dtachias 

0Showthrough/ 
Transparanca 


□  Quality  of 
Qualiti  in< 


print  varies/ 
ligala  da  I'imprassion 


□  Continuous  pagination/ 
Pagination  continue 

□  Includes  indexlesi/ 
Comprend  un  Ides)  index 

Title  on  header  teken  f rom:  / 
Le  titre  de  I'en-ttte  pro>ient: 


iuue/ 

livraison 


□  Title  pege  of  iuue 
Page  de  titre  de  la 

□  Caption  of  issue/ 
Titre  de  dtpart  da  la  linaiton 

□  Masthead/ 
Generique  IperiodiquesI  de  la  linaiton 


This  item  is  filmed  el  the  reduction  ratio  checked  balow/ 

Ce  document  est  filmi  su  taux  de  rUuction  indiqu*  ei-destous. 


1 — ' 

--_ 

__- 

14X 

pa^H 

^^^ 

18X 

22X 

2SX 

30X 

D 

^^_ 

_ 

M^^ 

^■M 

r 

y 

~ 

~~ 

n 

r- 

I     - 

UX 

16X 

XX 

2*X 

^— ' 

7II« 

1 

1—1 

Ux 


Th*  copy  filmad  hara  ha*  baan  raproduead  thanks 
to  tha  ganaroaity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'axamplaira  film*  fut  raproduit  grlca  t  la 
S*n*rosit*  da: 

Blbliothequa  natlonale  du  Canada 


Tha  Imaga*  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  bast  quality 
posslbis  eonsidarlng  tha  condition  and  lagibility 
of  tha  orlglral  copy  and  In  kaaplng  with  tha 
filming  contract  spaclficationa. 


Original  coplaa  in  printad  papar  eovars  ara  filmad 
baginning  with  tha  front  eovar  and  anding  on 
tha  last  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
sion,  or  tha  back  covar  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  copiaa  ara  filmad  baginning  on  tha 
first  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
sion,  and  anding  on  tha  last  paga  with  a  printad 
or  illuatratad  imprassion. 


Tha  last  racordad  frama  on  aach  mierof ieha 
shall  contain  tha  symbol  —^  Imaaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  tha  symbol  V  Imaaning  "END"), 
whiehavar  applias. 


Las  Imagas  suivsntas  ont  St*  raproduilas  ave  Is 
plus  grsnd  soin.  compts  tsnu  da  la  condition  st 
da  la  nattatt  da  l'axamplaira  films,  at  an 
conformM  i  jae  las  conditions  du  contrat  da 
filmaga. 

Laa  aiamplairas  originaux  dont  la  couvarturs  an 
papiar  aat  imprimta  sont  filmis  sn  commancsnt 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  soit  par  la 
darnitra  paga  qui  comporta  una  smprsints 
d'Imprassion  ou  d'illustrstian,  scit  psr  la  sacond 
plat,  salon  la  eas.  Tous  las  sutras  axsmplsirus 
originaux  sont  filmte  an  commsnpant  par  Is 
pramitra  paga  qui  comporta  una  smprsints 
d'Imprassion  ou  d'illustration  at  an  tarminant  psr 
la  darniara  paga  qui  comporta  una  talla 
amprainta. 

Un  daa  symbolaa  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dsrnMrs  imsgs  da  chaqua  microficha.  salon  la 
cas:  la  symbols  ^»  signifia  "A  SUIVRE".  la 
symbols  V  signifia  "FIN". 


Maps,  platas.  charu.  ate.  may  ba  filmad  at 
diffarant  raduction  ratios.  Thosa  too  larga  to  ba 
antiraly  ineludad  in  ona  axposura  ara  filmad 
baginning  in  tha  uppar  laft  hand  cornar.  iaft  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  framas  as 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrams  illustrata  tha 
mathod: 


Las  cartas,  planchas.  tablssux,  stc.  psuvant  itra 
fiimSs  i  das  taux  da  reduction  diffirants. 
Lorsqua  la  document  ast  trop  grand  pour  itra 
raproduit  an  un  saul  clich*.  il  est  films  i  psrtir 
ds  I'sngia  suptrlsur  gsuchs.  ds  gsuchs  i  droits. 
St  da  haut  an  bas.  an  prenant  Is  nombra 
d'imagas  nScassaira.  lias  diagrammas  suivants 
illustrant  la  mSthoda. 


1  2  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

Miaocory  iemxution  tbt  chakt 

(ANSI  and  JSO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


_^  ^jPPLIED    IIVHGE      In 

^^gy;  165a   East   Main   Strtet 

f^a  {^'6)   432  -  0300  -  Phone 

^^S  (716)   28S  -  5989  -  Fax 


DONA-DREAMS 


A  STORY  OF 
LOVE  AND  YOUTH 


BT 


HARVEY  J.  Q'HIGGINS 

ADTHOB  OF  "THE  SMOKI-EATEBS " 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO, 

1906 


V 


\^:.bv 


264U2 


Copyright  IDM,  by 
The  Centuky  Co. 

Publialied  October,  1906 


THt  Bl  VINNI  FREW 


"  MISTRESS  ANNE" 

TO  HKMIKD  HKR  OF  TUB  DAYS  WHKN  8HP.,  TOO, 
r  OKAVK  WITH  VOUNIl  CARE  AND  ,  KIOIITED 
DO  WITH  THE  PROBLEMS   01"  A  WHOLE    IINI- 

V  EKt  .  i  TO  RECALL  TO  HEB  SOME  OP  TH08B 
TEAR-BRIOHT  DREAMS  Ol'  THE  PUTiIRK  WHOSE 
REALIZATION  IS  ALREADY  A  POf.SIBILlTY  ONLY 
or  THE  PAST  J  TO  BE  TO  HER  A  SOUVENIR  AND 
POND  KEMEUBAANCER  OP  HER  OWN  YOITTH. 
U.  J.  O'H. 


FABT 
I     1 

II     1 

III  1 

IV  1 


CONTENTS 


I   The  Make-Bemever 3 

II  The  Day-dreamer g^ 

III  The  Idealist j75 

IV  The  Visionaut Tg 


PART  I 
THE  MAKE-BELIEVER 


T' 

winds 

den  n 

soakec 

world 

the  St 

length 

ber  dc 

Up  on 

and  G 

—who 

a  strie 

from  I 

throng 

In  s 

wondei 

of  expe 

misty  1 

phers  I 

the  nui 

the  hor 


DON-A-DREAMS 


rpHE  sun  was  an  open  hole  in  the  heavens,  like  tl,o 
J.    uncovered  pot-hole  of  the  kitchen  sto;e.     The 

den  IT  r"'''  "^  *^'  *°^^'"^  ^""'''^^  «f  the  gar- 
den maples  fanning  themselves  in  the  heat.  The  rains 
soaked  through  the  ground  to  the  ocean  of  an  „nd  " 
world  on  which  the  crust  of  the  earth  was  floating-  and 
he  street  hydrants  connected  with  those  waters' b^  a 

Soil   anf.';, ''"""'''  ^''  '^  '«'"''-  ^  -  ™b- 
Un  on  t^   f       T^'  "'"  '"'  ""^-^  ^^^^i  ^ith  food. 

a?d  God  w    ""  °f  ^'V'*^"''  *""  ^"^«'«  ««t  •"  Heaven; 
and  God  was  a  stern  father-bearded  like  Jack's  gian 
-who  was  engaged  in  large  aflfairs  all  day  but  requ  red 
a  stnct  account  from  little  boys  wh^n  He  came  home 

nZriT  1 ""  '^^"'-^  ""'J  ''«''«d  down  ifi; 

through  the  roof  on  children  at  their  prayers 

In  short,  it  was  a  child's  world-that  paiheticallv 
«-onderful  world  which  is  such  a  little  round  S  evil 

isThTT"""'^'^  •'^  imagination's  so  "gh    n 
nnsty  hills.    It  was  such  a  world  as  the  old  cartogra 
Phers  used  to  map-with  all  the  poetry  and  fable  of 
he  nursery  located  in  a  "Terra  Incognita"  just  over 
the  horizon.    For  though  the  boy  was  six  years  0^!"! 


*  DON-A-DREAMS 

was  the  eldest  of  a  brood  of  three,  his  mother  had  be- 
come an  invalid,  and  he  had  been  neglected  in  his  most 
inquisitive  years  for  the  sicklier  infants  who  had  suc- 
ceeded him.  The  little  nursemaid,  Nannie,  had  taught 
him  to  read  ij.  an  "indestructible"  copy  of  "Jack,  the 
Giant-Killer";  and  what  he  had  not  been  able  to  learn 
of  the  world  from  a  volume  of  Grimm's  "Fairy  Tales" 
he  had  worked  out  accordinf?  to  his  fancy. 

When  Miss  Morris,  a  visiting  governess,  succeeded 
Nannie  as  his  teacher,  two  small  desks  were  set  up 
for  him  and  Frankie  in  the  playroom,  and  he  began 
eagerly  to  learn  the  game  of  figures  which  she  called 
"Arithmetic."    But  she  objected  to  his  methods  when 
she  found  that  1  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  and  2  a  little 
old  woman  bent  double,  and  3  a  fat  cook  with  an 
apron-string  waist,  and  4  a  boy  sitting.     There  fol- 
lowed  explanations   of   things   in   general,   and   Miss 
Morris  spent  a  morning  asking  questions  and  laugh- 
ing at  the  answers  she  got.    She  set  herself,  with  pa- 
tience, to  correct  his  mistaken  fancies;  and  he  bore 
it  as  a  child  must.    But  when  she  said  that  all  fairy 
tales  were  untruths  and  denied  Jack  and  his  Giant 
any  existence  in  reality,  he  began  to  doubt  her;  and 
after  she  had  gone,  he  turned  to  the  book  itself,  and 
found  her  word  outweighed  by  the  strong  authority 
of  the  print  and  the  pictures. 

He  said  nothing;  he  had,  already,  the  habit  of  si- 
lence. But,  thereafter,  when  she  taught  him  that 
"the  world  was  round  like  an  orange  and  flattened 
at  the  poles,"  he  looked  out  the  playroom  window 
and  saw  a  level  earth  that  stretched  away  from  the 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER  5 

brick-and-stone  realities  of  the  street  into  the  sunset 
glow  and  horizon  clouds  of  fairyland  and  "Terra  In- 
cognita." When  she  heard  him  describe  a  void  of 
hunger  by  saying  that  his  legs  were  empty,  and  ex- 
plained to  him  the  tubular  construction  of  his  insides, 
it  did  not  prevent  him  from  keeping  his  legs  as 
straight  as  possible  under  the  dinner  table  so  that  his 
food  might  have  an  easy  passage  down  to  his  hollow 
feet.  And  although  she  denied  that  the  crust  of  the 
earth  floated  on  water,  he  watched  with  as  much 
anxiety  as  ever  how  the  men  dug  in  the  street-afraid 
that  the  bottoms  would  fall  out  of  the  drain  pits 
which  they  were  making,  and  drop  them  all  into  the 
under  ocean. 

Then,  one  morning,  when  she  was  coming  upstairs 
to  teach  him,  he  heard  her  say  to  his  mother:  "He 
has  such  babyish  fancies  about  so  many  things." 

His  mother  replied:  "Babyish  fancies?"  in  a  tone 
that  resented  the  criticism  of  her  boy  as  a  reflection 
on  herself. 

"Like  Santa  Claus,"  Miss  Morris  added  hastily. 
"Only  about  other  things." 

"WliI,"  his  mother  said,  "I  think  I  should  leave 
the  child  his  Santa  Claus." 

Miss  Morris  came  up  to  the  playroom  in  high  color. 
As  soon  as  their  books  were  opened,  she  said  to  Donald : 
"I  suppose  you  believe  in  Santa  Claus?" 
She  smiled  as  she  said  it;  but  he  knew  that  smile. 
"Isn't  he?"  he  faltered. 
"Is  n't  he  what?" 
"Is  n't  he— really?" 


^  DON-A-DBEAMS 

She   did   not   answer.     "W-^  'II    bpm-n  "   .i.  j 

'Vith  yesterday's  lesson  again."  You^  "U       Zt 
be«er  progress  Donald,   or  Frankie  '11   catch   „p   to 

He  made  no  progress  that  morning;  and  when  the 

STJ"'.,'"''''^''  """  Miss  Morri    had  gone    he 
found   himself  fallen   on   a  withe.^d   day      Au'the 

ened    and  his  mother's  "Leave  the  child  his  Santa 
Cla-"   was   as   humiliating   as   Miss   Morris'/cold 

He  spread  the  rug  on  the  floor  in  the  accented 
eonfleuration  of  a  battlefield,  but  he  lost  heat  for 
the  ga^o  before  he  had  his  first  fort  built  and  his 
soldiers  '.rawn  up  in  rank  for  Frankie's  cannonade 
of  marWes.  He  took  hold  of  the  end  of  the  rug  and 
tZ  tb    '  ^,'!°lr'""P"«'^  '°*°  *h^  «-  wth  a'jerk 

he  b  ckTf  his  b"  H "  "''  '•'^  """""=«  ""J  b"»S 
wlnf  l  r  .  "''  "^'"°'*  *^«  tsble  leg.  FranHe 
went  bawling  down  the  stairs;  and  Don  locked  th! 
playrcK.m    door   against    the    visit    of   any'tlngin. 

Now  before  every  Christmas  in  the  nast    hp  h.^ 

r/wti°  '""*''  ^'«-  -*»>  N  n^ieThelpJef 
ters  that  had  been  meaningless  scrawls  of  lead  penci 
because  he  had  not  then  learned  to  write.     He  Tad 

footf  r/'"  "  "  "^"'^  °*  *^^  ««ic  floor  at  the 
foot  of  a  large  post  that  supported  the  beams  of  the 
roof;  and  on  every  Christmas,  the  toys  which  he  had 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVEB  7 

written  for,  had  been  waiting  for  him  in  the  nursery. 
It  occurred  to  him,  now,  that  he  could  use  that  post 
to  put  Santa  Claus  to  the  proof.  He  tore  a  sheet 
from  his  scribbling  book,  and  after  a  half-hour's  la- 
bor achieved  a  letter  which  was  intended  to  read: 
"Dear  Santa  Claus— Please  write  me  a  letter.  Miss 
Morris  laughed  because  if  I  believed  in  Santa  Claus 
and  I  want  abetter  because  1  never  saw  yon.  You 
won't  let  us  see  you.  I  will  write  to-morrow  or  some 
other  day  about  what  I  want  for  Christmas.  Please 
excuse  mistakes.  I  must  now  say  good-bye.  So  good- 
bye." 

The  act  relieved  him  like  a  prayer;  for,  of  itself, 
It  gave  Santa  Claus  the  reality  of  a  being  to  whom 
a  petition  could  be  sent.  He  dropped  his  letter  into 
the  crack  of  the  attic  floor  and  felt  himself  confirmed 
in  his  faith. 

But  Miss  Morris,  as  an  educator,  held  that  children 
should  not  be  brought  up  on  lies;  and  every  day  she 
explored  his  mind  for  more  of  this  "nursery  non- 
sense"; and  every  day,  she  let  the  cold  daylight 
of  common  sense  in  on  some  cherished  corner  of  his 
twilight  world.  The  snow  that  had  begun  to  fall, 
melting,  on  the  warm  earth,  had  not  been  shoveled 
over  the  edges  of  the  clouds  by  any  celestial  garden- 
ers cleaning  the  walks.  Jack  Frost  was  not  a  little 
man  with  a  blue  nose  who  came  at  night  to  breathe 
on  the  window  panes.  The  dreams  of  a  boy  in  a 
warm  cot  were  an  affair  of  the  stomach,  and  there 
was  no  such  place  as  Nannie's  " Slumberland. "  Don 
took  refuge  behind  an  obstinate  silence  from  which 


8  D0N-A-DBEAM8 

no  questions  could  draw  him,  but  his  education  went 
on  none  the  less,  and  he  could  only  oppose  U  with 
the  conscious  effort  of  a  make-believe.  8^11X2 
at  h.^  one  day  when  she  found  him  engaged  fn  a 
fflimic  war  w.th  his  blocks  and  marbles,  anf  Tlo  kcd 
hamaelf  and  Prankie  in  the  playroom  afterward     She 

city  of  Faith ;  he  could  only  blush  and  flee  from  her 
However,  she  said  no  more  to  him  about  h  s  Sante 

ceiHnT     /..     ^^^^  ^"""  *'"'  «™^  '•^fleeted  on  the 
W  /'        J^"  '""""^  "*  ^'"""^^^'^  f"m  sleds  creak! 
«.g  down  the  road  with  a  jingle  of  bells-' <taTkTd 
Ch  s  mas"  together,  and  were  happy.    Don  exnlaned 
an  Idea  he  had  of  how  Santa  cfaus  cou  d    ransport 
such  mdhons  of  toys  in   one  sleigh:  he  loadedl 
douds  ,v.th  them,  from  the  top  windows  of  his  towlr- 
ng  ice  pala-e,  and  sent  them  floating  down  the  wi^d 
to  the  cities;  then,  with  his  reindeer  sleigh  that  flTw 
m  the  air,  he  delivered  them  from  chimney  to  cht 
ney,-^and  when  he  had  emptied  his  sacks  of  one  car^ 

".antr.r  aiouf  L-hirwirtts^T  -r- 

ft'm  m  the  middle,  and  gloated,  round-eyed-  and  Don 

day-dreamed  of  Christmas  in  a  heart-tickling  content 

But,  on  the  eve  of  the  great  mystery,  his  letter  and 

the  suspicion  that  had  inspired  it  recurred  to  htm 

of  the  household;  his  elders  repeated  too  often  a  sTr  ct 
injunction  that  when  he  went  to  bed  he  waTto  c2 
his  eyes  tightly  and  go  to  sleep  at  once.    Why?    ''2 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER  9 

cauM,   Donald,"  hia  mother  answered  him,   kissing 
him  good-night,  "if  Santa  Claus  seea  you  looliing  at 
him,  he   II  fly  away  and  not  leave  you  anything  "    He 
made  no  reply-being  confused  with  much  thought. 
I  heir    bed    room-Prankie's    and    his-had    been 
moved  to  the  top  of  the  house  to  protect  the  slumbers 
ot  the  new  baby  in  the  nursery.    Their  playroom  had 
been  built  for  a  billiard  room,  and  it  was  divided  from 
the  bedroom  by  a  pair  of  large  folding  doors  with 
glasses  newly  frosted.     Don  had  once  licked  at  that 
frostmg  m  a  mistaken  id'.a  that  it  was  the  same  as 
the   icing  of  a   cake.     Finding   it  tasteless,   he  had 
scratched  at  it  with  a  penknife,  and  so  had  made  a 
peephole  which  he  had  since  used  when  hiding  from 
Miss  Morris. 

Now,  just  as  he  was  falling  asleep- (he  had  ex- 
plained that  phrase  "falling  asleep"  to  himself  by 
imagining  a  physical  sensation  of  falling  through  the 
floor  with  his  bed,  and  so  induced  sleep  by  confusing 
his  brain  with  the  whirl  and  giddiness  of  his  descent ) 
-Now,  when  the  bed  was  well  through  the  floor  and 
was  beginning  to  rock  gently  down  to  "Slumberland  " 
the  thought  of  this  peephole  in  the  frosted  door  caiiie 
to  him  with  a  vividness  of  suggestion  that  might  have 
made  it  seem,  to  an  older  mind,  a  prompting  of  the 
devil.  It  came  with  all  the  terrifying  seductiveness, 
the  tear  and  fascination,  of  a  tempting  against  con- 
science. Santa  Claus  was  to  be  in  the  playroom,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  glass  doors.  Their  stockings  had 
been  hung  there  for  him,  and  the  peephole  was  on  that 
side  of  the  room  on  which  he  would  leave  his  gifts 
Don  started  up  in  his  bed,  and  gazed  at  the  squares 


li 


^"  DON-A-DBEAMS 

of  light  that  were  framed  in  the  doorcase.  Prankio 
had  compelle.1  the  oblivion  of  young  sleep  by  a  .tut 
born  «lenee,  and  now  breathed  a  regular,  snmH  breath. 
There  was  no  sound  of  any  movement  in  the  playroom 
He  deba  ed  the  situation  with  himself.  If  Santa 
Claus  should  see  him  watehing,  he  would  notZll 

hi  */.^'  ^"  ""'*''"  '"""'^  •""•  ««id  ««•  Yes,  but 
behmd  the  frosted  glasses  how  could  Santa  Claus  see 
h.mf  And  yet,  why  risk  it,  since  an  answer  to  the 
lot  er  would  be  enough.  Well,  if  Santa  Cla^s  woufd 
not  a  low  Inmself  to  be  seen,  would  he  allow  h.W If 
to  wnte»    And  if  he  objected  to  being  spied  on   wh. 

tr:rp::r''^''''"^^''"--*°^'-°p"t'"'" 

ceiling!'^  '"""'  °"  ^"^  "'"'""'  '"''  ^^'"^"^  "t  ^^^  '>'» 
He  was  startled  into  staring  wakefulness-it  seemed 
o..Iy  an  .nstant  later-by  the  sound  of  the  glass  dT™ 
bemp  shut  wuh  caution.  Someone  must  have  iS 
into  the  room  I  It  must  have  been  Santa  Claus  mak 
mg  certain  that  he  was  not  being  watched ' 

Don  clutched  the  side  of  his  cot,  frightened  at  the 
danger  he  had  escaped  and  thankful  that  he  had  es 
oaped  It ;  and  under  both  feelings,  he  was  glad  beyond 
words  that  Santa  Claus  was  "really."     L  iSed 
holding  his  breath  with  awe.  "stened, 

A  bolt  fell  in  the  playroom.  The  noise  was  followed 
by  a  suppressed  giggle.  It  was  Nannie's  giggle  Tnd 
Don  had  no  sooner  heard  it  than  he  was  over  the 
s:de  of  his  cot  and  tip-toeing  across  the  room,  wTh  the 
truth  already  heavy  on  his  chest. 


THE  MAKE-BKLIEVER  n 

He  put  his  oye  to  the  peephole.     When  ho  turned 

away  from  the  door,  he  .tumbled  blindly  to  hi.  bed 

and  buried  his  face  in  the  pillows  and     icd  himwilf 

to  sleep. 

Years  afterward,  when  exp^-riencc  had  discovcn-d 
to  him  his  own  personality,  ho  saw  in  that  small  in- 
eident  the  little  gist  and  prologue  of  his  life 


n 

In  the  gray  of  the  Christmas  morning,  he  woke  to 
his  disillusionment,  but  1;.  woke  also  to  the  thought 
that  he  must  not  tell  Prankie;  and  he  woke,  in  fact 
no  longer  an  infant,  but  an  elder  brother,  desperately 
sophisticated  and,  beside  Frankie's  enthusiasm,  even 
b  as«.  Thereafter,  his  make-believes  were  conscious 
always;  and  he  began  to  play  with  his  imagination 
tor  a  game. 

Being  exiled  from  the  nursery  to  escape  the  scarlet 
fever,  he  was  on  a  visit  to  an  aunt  who  lived  at  the 
other  end  of  the  town;  and  on  an  eventful  mornin- 
he  woke,  alone  in  his  cot,  to  hear  his  two  cousins 
whispering  together  within  their  high  spindle  pali- 
sade on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room.  He  opened 
one  sleepy  eye  to  see  that  they  were  playing  "Mam- 
moth Cave,"  a  game  which  he  had  taught  them  (It 
required  that  you  cover  yourself  with  the  bed  clothes 
turn  flat  on  your  face,  and  wriggle  down  through  the 


12 


DON-A-DREAMS 


.uffooation  of  "between  .heet."  until  your  head  came 
out  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.)  He  did  not  rouae  him- 
«'lf :  for  the  three  children  had  formed  an  agreement 
that  no  one  of  them  should  riae  before  the  other.,  «> 
that  If  one  wiahed  to  take  an  extra  forty  winka  while 
bPeakfaat  waited,  they  all  lay  in  bed  together  and  the 
wrath  of  the  powers  of  the  household  spent  itself  in 
a  general  thunder  that  did  not  strike. 

But  their  restlessness  continued;  and  when  he  heard 
a  sly  chuckle,  he  asked  thickly:  "What  're  you  do- 
ing? The  over-prompt  "Nothing!"  of  their  an- 
swer  wakened  him.  He  rose  on  his  elbow.  Their 
wngglmg  ceased,  and  their  two  stolid  faces  stared 
blandly  at  him  out  of  the  bed  clothes. 

One  of  them  said,  with  a  blink:  "Who  can  make 
the  highest  canflever  bridgef"  (This  was  another 
of  his  inventions.  To  do  it  you  stretched  yourself 
out  on  your  back,  and  then,  with  your  elbows,  raised 
an  arch  of  body  supported  on  neck  and  heels.)  But 
While  the  elder  cousin  was  getting  himself  up,  he 
lifted  the  corner  of  his  coverlet  accidentally  and 
Don  saw  the  black  sleeve  of  his  jacket.  He  cried 
lou  re  dressing!" 

They  were  already  dressed.  The  playing  "cant'- 
lever  bridge  had  been  a  rune  by  which  they  covered 
an  attempt  to  draw  up  their  knickerbockers  to  their 
waists.  And  all  their  other  contortions  had  covered 
similar  treasons. 

They  ran  away  to  breakfast,  s.iouting;  and  Don 
almost  wept  with  chagrin  and  disappointment  It 
was  so  low  a  betrayal  of  his  confidence-so  treacher- 


THE  MAKE-UELIEVER 


18 


OM  a  misuse  of  his  beloved  make-believet— that  he 
felt  he  never  would  forgive  them.  He  sulked  through 
a  cold  breakfast,  and  went  out  alone  to  the  lawn,  re- 
fusing to  speak  to  either  of  them,  though  his  aunt 
attempted  to  placate  him  with  a  candy  stick. 

He  took  a  picture  book  with  him  to  console  him- 
self in  solitude;  but  he  found  the  hired  man  cutting 
the  grass;  and  on  his  neighbor's  veranda,  a  very 
young  lady  with  a  doll  was  watching  the  work.  Don 
also  watched. 

"He-he  's  cutting  the  grass,"  she  explained. 
"And  when  he  has  it  all  out,  he— he  puU  water  on 
it  to— to  make  it  grow  again— so-so  he  can  cut  it 
again." 

He  accepted  tlie  explanation  in  the  spirit  in  which 
it  was  offered;  she  introduced  herself  as  "Inisig 
Margaret,"  a  title  which  she  had  taken  from  tl., 
family  servants ;  and  in  a  few  moments  he  was  sotted 
on  the  front  steps  beside  her,  their  heads  together 
over  the  picture  book,  and  each  sucking  a  share  of 
the  candy  stick.  And  Miss  Margaret's  share  was  the 
larger. 

Between  bites,  he  explained  the  pictures.  When 
there  was  o  castle  in  the  background,  he  could  teJl 
exactly  in  what  room  of  it  the  princess  was  locked. 
On  demand,  he  described  the  ogre,  who  was  her 
jailer,  to  the  very  wart  on  the  knob-end  of  his  nose; 
and  he  pictiired  every  article  of  the  gold  and  silver 
furnishings  of  the  palace  with  a  realistic  detail  that 
made  Miss  Margaret  gasp.  Before  the  book  was  fin- 
ished, they  had  become  such  friends  that  she  let  him 


14 


DON-A-DKEAMS 


had  be  n  pMnV  Sh?  V"T*'"  ^''^  ^l"""  ^^e 
with  battaEnsof  coloL  ""  m  *°  '*''™  ^'°'"^-*-'« 
at  one  moment  and  cannot  r.l'.  'I''  '''''  ''«^""-y 
sie^  guns  of  cuts  of  °m\  l*  *^'  °"="'  *"  '"«''« 
pith;  and  to    av  ont  ^•'''■^''"*  •'"'''^'^  "^  «>eir 

-idi;.  j:  diresrraverrvr  ^r 
at'^arn!^  r;  rprr¥"^-  ^"  - 

havior  of  th^rega"  bei^,?  '  ""'^  '''  "'"^^^^^  t''*  »>«- 
not  follow  She  „srt7tr«.\r^  "'""  ^"^  -"''^ 
of  his  wounds-aCtehl^^itT"".  ^'"""^  '''' 
the   ogre-and   leavp   tfl  '*°  •^™S°°^  and 

^yesofherJouth'esidehirrT  n  "^^^  °"*  ^^e 
risht   fun   in    that    an^  ^         ''•    ^°°  •=°"'<^  «««  "^ 

They  co™prLtd\rag5„rrre  r  ^^"'"^■ 

tragic  ending  every  Lrd X  they'  lyed  T'  ^ 
he  consented  to  the  <!iih«fit„4-  ^  P'ayed  it;  and 
for  the  "Noah's  wife  '-t?,^^  '^  "'"«  '^'""^  doll 

wh.ch  he  had  a  way^'usedt  tb!     "  ''"  '""''''"' 
ways  used  as  the  imprisoned  beauty. 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER  15 

hir.f//"'?'''!!'^  *^''"''°''^   "°*"  ^^  distinguished 
h,msef  by  climbing  up  the  pillar  of  a  side  veranda 
to  call     good  morning"  through  the  window  to  her 
while  she  was  still  in  bed;  and  she,  at  dinner,  refused 
to  eat  stewed  corn,  a  dish  of  which  she  was  ravenously 
fond,  because  he  had  told  her  that  it  had  once  made 
him  ,11.    She  was  a  most  unusual  young  lady,  especi- 
ally in  affairs  of  the  heart:  she  was  impulsively  posi- 
tive in  her  likes  and  her  dislikes,  and  she  expressed 
either  always   unreservedly.     She   treated   Don's   el- 
der cousin,   Conroy,  with  a  coldness  which  the  boy 
demanded  an  explanation  of:  and  she  explained  sim- 
ply    I  don't  like  your  face."     She  crossed  the  ve- 
randa to  a  visitor-to  whom  she  had  not  been  intro- 
duced-and    sat    herself    on    his    knee,    smiling    the 
frankest  admiration;  and  when  she  was  asked  to  ex- 
cuse her  abruptness,  she  replied  "He's  nice"     She 
flattered   Don   with   an   adoration   that   went   to   his 
head. 

She  had  already  given  him  a  handkerchief  worked 
with  her  monogram  in  pale  blue  silk-for  his  sticky 
Angers,  though  she  did  not  say  so-and  she  came  one 
afternoon  to  their  playroom  in  the  broken  "summer 
house  with  a  photograph  of  herself  in  her  winter 
turs.  He  was  busy  making  preparations  for  the 
bunal  of  a  lead  hero  who  had  been  killed  in  the  wars 
He  accepted  the  picture  with  a  brief  condescension 
and  directed  her  to  line  up,  in  funeral  procession, 
the  wooden  animals  from  his  Noah's  ark.  She  obeyed 
h.m  silently,  but  not  with  her  usual  enthusiasm;  and 
when  the  last  strain  of  martial  music  had  died  away 


16 


DON-A-DREAMS' 


and  Don  had  fired  the  fet  "Boom"  of  imaginary 
cannon  over  the  soldier's  grave,  she  said  abrupt;^ 
You  ought  to  give  me  one." 
"One  what?" 

"Picture.  A  picture  of  yourself  " 
He  shook  his  head.  "Haven't  any."  He  was 
ereciang  a  tomb  of  building-blocks  over  the  grave  She 
watched  h:m  moodily.  When  he  came  I  put  on 
the  roof,  he  found  himself  in  difficulties,  he  had  no 
blocks  long  enough  to  reach  from  wall  t^  wall     He 

!tT\    J     f  '*'  '*  '"'"''*  ^'  '"•«1«  t"  fit  exactly 
If  the  back  wall  were  moved  in  an  inch- 

She  snatched  it  from  him.    "Noi" 

He  caught  at  it.    "Give  me  that  " 

diptiot'-N"''"''  '^'-  '°''''  ''''  ^-^  -*•»  - 

''I  want  it,"  he  said  angrily. 

"No  "  She  backed  away  from  him.  "No.  Tou 
sha'n't.  Nof"  She  stamped  her  foot  to  stop  him  as 
he  got  up  from  his  knees.  When  he  clutched  at  her 
arm  impatiently,  she  turned  and  ran,  screaming  "Tou 
sha'n't!    You  sha'n't!" 

a«  w''  ^""1  T'"  "*''''■  ''""'^'"S  '"^t^nals  «s  good 
as  her  old  photograph.     There  was  the  cover  of  the 

nd  b°rok"d"'"'  '!  '^P*  *"^  "'«^'"-     He  tried  it 
and  broke  down  a  s>de  of  his  mausoleum.    He  brushed 

soll/bir.^^^  ""'  '-''''  '  *°^-^^  —  o^ 
But  Miss  Margaret  did  not  come  back,  and  he  be- 
gan to  miss  her.     He  went  nonchalantly  around  the 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER 


17 

house  to  where  the  other  children  were  playing  "fire 
engine";  but  she  was  not  there.  He  inquired  next 
ttTt^'M-'V'  -aid-of-all-work;  and  she  told  S 
htr drntlT"^'^  •""''^'  ^"^  -''-'  -"  *«'^- 

tor  him.     He  thought  to  make  all  right  by  flndine 

tl'rr'Ti  """"  *°  ^'^^  '•«'•'•  -d  the  only  Sture 
that  he  had  was  one  of  his  Sunday  school -LwS 
he  Btood  in  the  front  row  of  a  group  of  little  gS 

teftrw^?h  th'  "'  <'°'"Pi--"y  -  a  newspaper'and 
leit  it  with  the  servant  for  her 

He  learned,  next  morning,  that  she  had  gone  away 

to  her  home.    He  learned  also  that  she  had  not  uZ 

he  photograph;  the  servant  returned  it  to  him  in 

small  paeces-pieces  whieh  she  had  swept  out  from 

behmd  a  bureau  when  she  was  cleaning  the   g^e^ 

re" td  W  '"-^r  'r  ""''  «""*  *^^'  M'-  Ma-* 
garet  had  been  jealous  of  the  twenty-odd  little  girls 
who  were  m  the  picture  with  him.  She  had  1  t  hTm 
without  even  saying  good-bye. 


Ill 

Don  went  back  to  his  play  somewhat  lonely  (for  a 
day  or  two)   but  with  no  sentimental  regrets.     With 

citement  of  returning  to  his  home  to  find  Prankie 
shorn  of  his  locks  and  promoted  to  knickerborers 


18 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


(Afterward,    whenever   he   saw   a   boy    in    kilts     ho 

veSi  Ih'  """r*'^'-  ''"''  ^''^  because  he  had  no 
yet  had  the  searlet  fever.)     He  did  not  recover  Miss 
Margaret  again  until-the  24th  of  May 
These  were  the  days  when  the  24th  of  May    "the 

dians     And  they  were  the  days  before  the  invention 

ChLl        7"°»"-tl>«t  «-t  improvement  on   fhe 
Chinese  cracker-was  in  the  toy-shop  windows-  and 

weight  of  metal  as  against  rapidity  of  fire)   Prankio 
had  bought  only  crackers  of  .smaller  cahbre      It  r 
mamed  to  be  seen  whether  his  rattling  volleys  would 
be  a  match  for  Don's  great  guns 

und?Tfter  tS  T'"^'''  *"  "^^'^  *"«'"•  -^^'^^ration 
until  after  breakfast,  and  they  raced  through  the  meal 
neck  and  neck.  They  finished  together  and  ran  upstos 
together;  but  Don  stumbled  and  fell  on  the  landing 
and  Prankie  reached  the  toy  closet  first.  Th  re  the 
crackers    Roman   candles,  pin-wheels  and  what  not 

began  to  cram  ^ZZ^^ZtLJ^^J^ 
an  he  could  pick  them  up.  Don  shoved  in  beside  him 
panting,  to  see  that  his  brother  was  taking  two  cl' 
non  crackers  which  he  did  not  own,-  and  Don  as  the 
nghtfu  owner  of  them,  snatched  'at  them  'to  hw 
hem  till  h,  could  get  breath  to  protest.  He  caugh 
them  by  their  long  fuses;  and  Frankie,  jerking  back 
plucked  the  strings  out  by  the  roots  """^  ''^''^' 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER  19 

Now  Prankie  was  a  sturdy  little  fellow-round- 
headed  and  bent-browed-and  he  had  learned  that  he 
could  domineer  over  his  milder  brother  by  flying  into 
a  childish  passion  whenever  he  was  crossed  He 
struck  at  Don,  at  once;  but  Don,  enraged  by  the  loss 
of  his  two  best  crackers,  closed  with  him;  and  in  a 
wild  interchange  of  buffets,  Prankie  took  a  blow  on 
he  face  that  sent  him  to  the  floor  howling  with  a 
bleeding  nose. 

Don,  stiff  and  white  with  fright,  was  still  standing 
m  the  door  of  the  closet,  looking  as  guilty  as  Cain, 
with  Prankie  yellmg  on  the  carpet  at  his  feet,  when 
their  father-home  for  the  holiday-flung  angrily 
mto  the  room.  He  took  in  the  situation  with  one 
furious  glance;  and  then,  without  waiting  for  any 
explanation,  seized  Don  by  the  collar  and  began  cuff- 
ing him  with  a  brutally  hard  hand. 

No  doubt  he  did  not  know  how  heavily  he  struck 
the  boy,  for  he  had  never  beaten  any  of  his  ehildren 
before-being  able  to  awe  them  with  the  mere  threat 
ot  his  voice-and  Don  was  too  stunned  to  cry  out 
As  soon  as  he  was  released,  he  staggered  back  against 
the  wall,  his  head  ringing,  the  breath  all  out  of  his 
body,  blinded  with  tears.  His  father,  taking  Prankie 
up  earned  him,  still  bawling,  out  of  the  room. 

It  was  Don's  first  experience  of  these  passionate 
snefs  of  childhood-griefs  that  rend  the  body  with 
terrible  convulsions,  griefs  that  seem  to  rend  the  very 
soul  of  the  child  with  the  pain  of  an  injustice  from 
which  them  I.  no  appeal.  It  was  his  first  experience 
ot  them,  and  he  threw  himself  on  the  floor  of  the 


20 


DON-A-DREAMS 


toy  closet  like  a  child  in  a  fit.  He  flung  the  flre- 
erackere  away  from  him;  he  beat  the  floor  with  uis 
little  fists;  he  ran  to  the  door  of  the  playroom,  locked 
It,  and  dropped  on  the  rug  there  choked  with  the 
sobs  that  burst  from  him,  in  writhing  and  weeping, 
till  he  was  too  weak  to  do  more  than  moan 

Nannie  came,  and  tapped  secretly  on  the  door,  and 
ened  Donnie?  Donnie?"  under  her  breath.  But 
he  knew  from  her  tone  that  he  was  in  disgrace  with 
the  household,  and  he  would  not  open  to  her 

hoarld^'^^  ^°"'  "''  ^^  P'"'"'"'"  ^'^^  whispered 
He  knew  they  were;  and  he  knew  that  his  father 
would  punKh  him  by  leaving  him  at  home.  He  did 
not  intend  to  go  downstairs  and  take  his  sentence. 
He  held  quiet  until  Nannie  had  gone  away,  and  then 
he  crawled,  numb  and  exhausted,  into  the  bedroom 
and  threw  himself  on  his  cot. 

He  heard  knocking  on  his  door  faintly,  m  a  weak 
doze,  but  he  did  not  get  up.  He  heard  his  mother 
calling  him,  up  the  stairs  which  she  was  unable  to 
climb;  but  he  did  not  reply.  Only  when  he  heard 
voices  on  the  lawn,  he  peeped  out  behind  the  cur- 
tain and  saw  her  in  her  invalid  chair,  his  father 
wheehng  her-with  the  baby  on  his  arm-and 
Frankie  walking  proudly  at  her  side.  They  turned 
at  the  gate  to  call  a  last  good-bye  tc  Nannie;  and 
his  mother  looked  up  at  the  nursery  windows  with 
a  taee  that  often  came  with  tears,  to  Donald  after- 
ward,  in  dreams. 
He  jumped  back  and  dropped  the  curtain.     When 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER 


21 

he  heard  Nannie  close  the  front  door,  he  looked  out 
again.    They  were  gone. 

There  were  no  more  tears  in  him.  He  went  back 
to  the  playroom,  dumbly,  and  sat  down  among  his 
toys.  The  sight  of  the  fire-crackers  gave  him  a  mek- 
enmg  feeling.  He  began  to  set  up  his  soldiery  as 
mechanically  as  an  older  person  would  tu-n  from 
grief  to  an  accustomed  task. 

But  weeping  had  made  him  hungry,  and  he  de- 
serted his  wars  to  look  out  a  side  window  at  the 
neighboring  fire-hall  clock.  Then,  from  the  window 
he  went  to  a  wall  of  colored  pictures  which  Prankie 
and  he  had  cut  from  the  "Christmas  Graphic  -  and 
pinned  up  on  the  plaster;  and,  at  last,  he  began  to 
wander  from  picture  to  picture,  "playing  showman" 
as  Frackie  and  he  had  done. 

He  was  before  a  picture  of  Nelson  at  Trafalgar 
glowing  with  an  imagined  eloquence  which  did  not 
shape  Itself  in  words  at  all,  and  swaying  a  huge  pub- 
lic with  emotion- (let  his  father  beat  him  then)- 
when  suddenly  he  saw  Miss  Margaret  sitting  in  the 
tront  row  of  his  audience. 

The  audience  vanished.  Don  had  found  for  him- 
se.f  that  strange  companion  of  so  many  solitary 
children,  an  imaginary  playmate. 

He  made  a  round  of  the  pictures  with  her,  played 
Imprisoned  Princess  and  the  Game  of  War,  and  took 
her  on  a  tour  of  the  empty  house.  He  showed  her 
the  post  m  the  attic  where  he  mailed  his  letters  to 
banta  Glaus,  and  he  assursd  her  that  Santa  Glaus 
never  failed  to  answer  them.     He   took  her  to  his 


22 


DON-A-DREAMS 


nnlk     He  sat  m  such  a  thoughtful  silence  and  was 

su  kit     H  T  P''*'*'"'^  "'«'  """"^^d  him  of 

finished  their  meal,  he  stald'th;  ^^^.'Z'.  tt 
tm^?,/r''  ''''  P«-*  -  the  sun  of  Ve  wTndow 
bais     fC  "'''"'^^'^  «"''  ""''"'^^  «nd  bit  at  thi 

off  pin  wheels  an.!  ZV         ^,       ^^  '"'^«°  *°  ^et 
then^aLt  ntertS     ndTh    "  "  "'''-ftemoon ; 

laughing    rebelliously    'and    sh„T  the  "f  ''"^-  '°"^'= 
playroom  again.  "*    themselves    in    the 

''Well  "    Nannie    complained    to    the    cook     "h;« 
liekm'  ain't  done  him  any  good."  ' 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER  23 

When  the  family  returned,  he  was  cutting  out  fig- 
urea   from   the   "Graphic"   supplements   and   acting 
new  and  wonderful   games.     He  did  not  go  down- 
stairs;   Frankie  came  up-full  of  the  news  of   the 
picnic  and  the  steamboat  trip   down  the  river  and 
the  glories  of  the  merry-go-round -prepared,  perhaps 
to  gloat  over  the  fallen  estate  of  his  brother     Don 
did  not  even  notice  him.     Frankie  insisted  on  being 
heard.    Don  gathered  up  his  pictures  and  barricaded 
himself  in  the  bedroom. 
He  remained  there  until  he  was  called  to  supper. 
"You  have  been  a  bad  boy,  Don,"  his  mother  said 
to  him  that  night.    "Your  father  's  angry  with  you." 
He  would  not  look  at  her.    His  face  was  still  swol- 
len from  his  morning's  tears,  and  streaked  with  dirt 
and     smudged     with     powder.       His     fingers     were 
scorched.     There  was  a  hole  burned  in  the  sleeve  of 
his  jacket. 
"What  have  you  been  doing?" 
"Playing." 
"Are  n't  you  sorry?" 
He  did  not  answer. 

"Say  that  yoA  're  sorry,  or  I  shall  not  kiss  you 
good-night." 

He  did  not  feel  that  he  was  sorry,  and  he  did  not 
speak.  She  smoothed  his  hair  with  her  thin  nand, 
kissed  him  and  sent  him  away. 

"I  don't  seem  to  understand  him  any  more,"  she 
confessed  to  his  father  with  a  sigh. 

His  father  replied:  "He's  growing  too  big  to  be 

running  around  here,  wild.    He  should  be  at  school." 

And  that  was  the  decree  of  judgment  which  was 


24 


DON-A-DREAMS 


to  ond  Don's  ehildhoo<l.    He  wa.  left  to  his  imaginan, 

a^MhaJZ;  '!,'"  ""  "'''''  make-believes  thTou\T 
ail  that  long,  radiant  summer;  but  in  the  fall  Mi.. 
Morr,s  opened  a  "private  and  sele  t"  acadel  fo" 
boys^and  girls,  and  Don  was  enrolled  a, trIoS 

sisSr  """  ^^  ^'^  "*"'  *^"y  Mo'""'  ^'  «nall 


IV 

fh™"  *'!'  ^''•''  "^  ''^'"  y^""^  «•«»  "f  eighteen 

of  the  il^rw"'  ""*  ''''"""'P-  The  originally 
ot  the  child  has  been  overgrown;  the  eccentricities  of 
the  young  man  have  not  yet  sprouted.  Don  Zed 
at  a  desk  that  was  exactly  like  a  score  of  o^erTe  ks 
LIT  ^7:"'  ^""-'■■•X'"'.  studied  the  common  let 
n  ™,*rf  '"^'"''^'^  ^^''  «"d  what  heTearned 
study     table  in  the  playroom,  he  worked  out  his  p» 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVEB 


25 

He  was  perhaps  a  trifle  more  timorous  and  retir- 
inic   than    most    of   his   classmates,    slower    to    flaht 
slower  to  learn,  and  more  given  to  what  Miss  Morris 
called     dazing"  over  his  books;  but  in  all  the  broad 
characteristics  of  his  age,  he  was  commonplace  and 
typical      Even  in  the  playground  he  did  nothing  to 
mark  h.mself  out  among  his  fellows-except  to  the 
eyes  of  little  Maiy  Morris,  whose  admiration  was  so 
silent  that  he  remained  unaware  of  it.     Once  he  at- 
tempted  to  take  an  impossibly  high  jump,  went  at  it 
in  a  smiling  assurance,  and  fell  over  it  with  amaze- 
ment     (He  explained,  then,  bruised  and  tearful,  that 
he  had  dreamed,  the  previous  night,  of  jumping  the 
Nix-foot  fence  at  the  back  of  the  yard,  and  had  leaped 
over  ,t  with  ease  and  grace.)    Ordinarily,  he  lacked  the 
desire  to  shine.     He  lacked  it  notably  in  comparison 
«ith  Prankie;  but  then  Prankie  was  growing  to  be 
the  sort  of  boy  who  will  not  let  you  pass  him  on  the 
street-even  though  he  has  to  run  to  keep  ahead  of 
you-and  who  sleeps  always  on  his  side,  with  a  leg 
drawn  up    in  an  attitude  of  climbing  caught  from 
the    schoolbook    illustration    of    Longfellow's    "Ex- 
eelsior." 

At  the  age  of  nine,  Don  was  a  weedy  boy,  slope- 
shouldered,  loose-wristed,  pale  and  very  shy.  He  was 
not  strong  enough  in  the  arm  to  enjoy  baseball;  and 
he  was  too  weak  in  the  calves  to  relish  "Pump,  pump 
pull  away"  or  "Hounds  and  Deer";  and  for  that 
reason  he  did  not  join  in  half  the  games  of  the  yard 
«nd  the  pavement.  He  spent  his  idle  hours  reading 
stories  of  Indians,  English  boarding-school  boys  and 


26 


DON-A-DRE  VMS 


Marparet  had  not  liked    ,n,L^    ^^"^'  ^""^   ^^'"^ 

th.ro  had  alH-ay.  W:;^   'boTi  hTS  .^  """  .''"" 
a  noticeable  enmity  as  nl  v,  '  *''"''"'  '"*" 

lodged  weakling  afd  Convoy  mor  f  """  "'  "  '""'^■ 
sturdy  bully      The  tie  of  ^^  '"ore  of  a  pug-nosed  and 

Don's   plai,^   inferio^L  J""'"'""'""'  ''^'^'<"'  »" 

the.  frL  any  t        hta'lfbo'::'    ''T''^'    """^ 
tHcka  on  his  e'ousin,  Sppe^hin?:  1 ''i^"'  T' 

-d  pel  dTim";;  :r  r'  "-^-■'"'"^  "^^  "-^ 

«treet.    At    th^te  r^^'tSlttU  ""  ^'■^' 
else  take  the  same  liberties'  and  h    f      t        ""^""^ 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER  27 

Ihey  moved  along  together  at  the  foot  of  their  clanoi 
in  an  enforced  companionahip  that  wa«  contemp- 
tuoiwly  kindly  on  Conroy'i  side  and  at  once  grateful 
and  resentful  on  Don'i. 

Then  one  day  the  couain  came  to  achool  with  the 
whole  Btory  of  Don's  flirtation  with  Miss  MarRaret- 
n  story  he  had  learned  from  the  dinncr-tablo  talli  of 
his  elders  on  the  previous  evening.  It  was  now  three 
years  since  she  had  passed  out  of  thoir  lives,  but 
Conroy  still  remembered  her  aversion  to  his  "face" 
and  her  whole-hearted  admiration  of  Don;  and  to  the 
older  point  of  view  which  he  had  newly  caught,  Don's 
whole  affair  had  been  a  ridiculous  childishness  that 
had  ended  in  the  still  more  ridiculous  fiasco  of  the 
torn  photograph  and  Miss  Margaret's  indifferent  de- 
parture. 

It  was  shameful  to  Don  when  it  was  brought  up 
to  him  again,  and  he  blushed  and  suffered  bashfully 
under  his  cousin's  public  teasing.  "Did  she  use  to 
l<iss  you  in  the  summerhouse?"  the  others  twitted 
him.  "Oeorgie  Porgie,  pudding  and  pie,"  they  called 
him.  "Go  and  play  with  the  girls  and  give  them  your 
photograph." 

He  silenced  some  of  the  younger  ones  by  boxing 
their  ears;  he  was  even  irritated  into  fighting  a  boy 
of  his  own  height,  and  was  only  saved  from  a  beating 
by  Conroy 's  interference.  But  the  cousin  kept  up 
his  own  teasing,  day  after  day;  and  when  Saturday 
came,  Don  went  out  alone  to  his  haunts  in  the  Park, 
almost  a  persecuted  refugee  from  the  small  society 
of  the  neighborhood. 
It  was  a  clear  June  morning,  with  a  breeze  that 


28 


DON-A-DREAMS 


ground  had  not  been  levelled    «nH  tTI  " 

bed  in  the  shape  o/a  .reat'lfe^  I  an    11 1^1 
It   under  cover-erouching  in  the  accepted  manner  oJ 

the  :^::jTri' ''''''  ™''' ^«  ^^  "i 

ro.  cautiously  to  his  knees,  took  oXs  little  Seot"^ 


THE  MAKr-BELiEVE^ 


29 


cap,  and  began  to  repeat  hi.  usual  p  'ayers  in  peace. 
And  then,  to  make  his  dev,-*i.ns  ti=ore  real,  he  gathered 
some  broken  branches  and  small  twigs,  drove  the 
straighter  ones  into  the  soft  earth  and  put  the  others 
across  them  in  a  crude  representation  of  an  altar. 

The  story  of  that  make-believe  cannot  be  followed 
farther  without  an  appearance  of  sacrilege;  but  Don's 
memory  was  full  of  Old  Testament  stories  of  Jehovah's 
mterference  in  aid  of  his  prophets;  he  had  not  yet 
learned  that  the  age  of  miracles  had  ceased ;  and  when 
he  came  out  of  the  bushes  again,  he  walked  like  a 
young  David  to  battle,  his  eyes  big  with  a  religious 
exaltation. 

Conroy  had  been  seeking  him  up  and  down  the 
Park,  hiding  and  watching,  without  ever  suspecting 
that  his  timid  cousin  had  dared  to  enter  one  of  the 
forbidden  clumps  of  bushes;  and  as  soon  as  he  saw 
Don  in  the  open,  he  raised  a  view-haloo  and  bore  down 
on  him.  Don  doubled  up  his  fists  and  waited.  Con- 
roy came  shouting  gleefully.  He  did  not  intend  to 
tease  again;  he  had  seen  Don  going  off  alone  into  the 
Park,  and  he  had  been  taken  with  remorse  for  his  per- 
secution. In  the  bottom  of  his  boy's  heart,  he  ad- 
mired his  quiet  relative,  though  by  a  common  boyish 
perversion  of  affection  he  could  never  keep  his  rough 
hands  off  Don,  trying  to  plague  him  out  of  a  superior 
indifference  that  was  the  more  irritating  because  it 
was  so  unconscious. 

As   he   came   nearer,   he   saw   Don's   attitude   and 
stopped.     "What 's  the  matter!" 
"Keep  away  from  me." 


:^l 


30 


DON-A-DREAMS 


:.  I 


The  boy  stared.     "What  's  the  matter?" 
Don    backed    up    against    the    geraniums.     "Keep 
away  from  me."  ^ 

teolh'orth^  ^fr    '^"""^'"^  ^'°^'y  ^""i  ^••^t  his 
teeth   on   the  pale-l,pped  mutter  of  a  prayer      His 

exmsm  crept  in  on  him,  grinning,  and  erouehed-in- 

ndmg  to  wrestle  h,m  and  roll  him  on  the  grass-play- 

illv      ,"",  T^^^  '•""  '"  *'"'  """th  ^ith  a  blow 
hat  knocked  h,m  off  his  balance.     He  jumped  to  Z 
teet,  white;  and  Don  was  waiting  for  him 

They  fought  in  a  boyish  fury,  wrestling,  kicking 
and  seratchmg;  Don  even  bit  his  cousin's  hand.  U. 
was  whimpering  hysterically;  half  his  blows  were  go- 

and  T  r,"'  "^"""^  ^''■"■^'^  ^'  '■■^  •^^d  and  face 
and   kicked   into   his   legs.     He   went   down   on   the 

"Had  e        r?"  .'^"""'^  """''^  ^'''  *««  P-t  ou 
Had  enough?"    he  was  up  again,  fighting  iL  mad; 

foilht      r''  ^v^™^  """'^"'^'^  •'''"'  t''^  harder  h^ 
fought,  whining  like  an  animal,  his  face  covered  with 

ami  hi,       .   '  ""*  '"'  ''''  "'""•^  *hat  blinded  Wm; 
and  his  endurance  was  so  unexpected,  and  his  des 

rTanVh      "T"  "  """'  ''"''  "*  *"^'>t-«d  ct- 
roy,  and  he,  too,  hegan  to  cry 

flnl'  *"'^*;.d"df  «o°'«  onslaughts,  but  the  boy 
flung  h  msclf  m  clutching  and  falling,  and  tearing 
as  he  fell;  and  Conroy  had  to  defend  himself  with 
the  most  frantically  brutal  blows.  Even  Ten  lob 
bmg  horribly  and  so  weak  he  could  scarcely  stand  Don" 
staggered  in  again  and  again  after  every  rebuff  •  and 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER  31 

when  he  fell  at  last,  he  still  struggled,  fighting  des- 
pairmgly,  with  the  grass. 

Conroy,  trembling  in  the  knees,  sat  down  at  a  little 
distance,  wiped  his  blubbered  face  and  picked  at  his 
torn  stockings  where  the  kick  of  Don's  heavy  shoes  had 
out  them  and  drawn  blood.  lie  looked  at  Don  with 
scared  eyes.  "God!  God!"  Don  screamed  suddenly, 
and  rising  to  his  hands  and  knees,  he  began  to  crawl 
toward  Conroy,  in  a  frenzy.  Conroy  jumped  to  his 
toet  and  ran;  and  as  he  looked  back  over  his  shoulder 
lie  saw  Donald,  in  trying  to  follow  him,  topple  and 
iail  on  his  face. 

He  did  not  stop  running  till  he  came  to  the  Park 
fountain.  There,  having  washed  his  face  and  hands 
ho  sat  down  shivering  with  guilty  horror,  as  bewildered 
ns  a  murderer,  unable  to  make  up  his  mind  what  to 
do.  He  was  afraid  to  go  home  and  leave  Don  there 
He  was  afraid  to  go  back  and  face  the  prospect  of 
more  fighting.    He  had  "had  enough." 

It  was  fifteen  minutes  before  he  got  himself  around 
the  bed  of  lilac  bushes  and  saw  Don  lying  motion- 
less where  he  had  fallen. 

"Don!"  he  called  fearfully.  "Don!  What  's  the 
matter?  ...  I  didn't  mean  to.  I  didn't  want  to 
l..At  ...  Don?"  He  came  closer.  "I  'm  not  going 
to  touch  you.  I-you  hurt  me  as  much  as  I  did 
you.  .  .  .    Don?    Get  up." 

Don  began  to  moan.     Conroy  drew  nearer.     "You 
were  n't  licked,"  he  consoled,  in  a  shameful  whisper 
You  were  n't  licked.  .  .     I  ran  away." 
Don  sobbed:  "It-it  is  n't  that.     It  is  n't  that." 


32 


DON-A-DREAMS 


Conroy  knelt   beside   him   and   began   to  wipe  his 
eous.ns  torn  fingers  in  his  wet  handkerchief     ''I  ' 
never  h-hit  you"-    He  choked. 

Don,  face  down,  rolled  his  hea.l  from  side  to  side 
It  was  n't  tkat.    lie  could  n't  tell  what  it  was 

the  hlh  h"'*  ^^  ^"'^  •""*  '"'^'''^"'^  ^'^drawn  into 

Sims  If  norJT;"  '"''  '""'  *•'''*  "«  ''«1  ^l^o-" 
but  of  ai°l'  ^'f.  "'  P^"""'  ™<''-cy  and  protection, 
out  ot  distant  justice  and  no  partiality  of  love 

Come    on    back,    Don,"    Conroy    whispered.      "I 

one  elseT  '™  ''""  """■    ^"''  '  ^-'^  --  ^^^^  -^ 

It  was  the  end  of  Don's  young  religiosity  and  it 
was  the  teginning  of  a  mutual  respect  and  frie^ship 
between  Conroy  and  him.     Don  was  incurab  y    oh 

two;  for  Conroy  developed  a  sort  of  protective  devo 
t.on  that  was  as  dumb  as  it  was  dogged  If  Don  dW 
not  co^  ,  to  join  in  the  games  of  the  o  h^r  boy 
Com-oy  hunted  him  down  among  his  books  and  sat" 
wuh  him  over  them.  If  Don  stole  away  into  the  Park 
iZ7J:7l  k'"  "'^  '"^'^  ^  ^"-^  "Man  Friday  '•• 

exploring   expeditions   m   those   narrow   wilds      Don 

h.^coira^^rh^';',''''"^^"^  ''^''^  *'-'*  ^^-^-^ 

or  melanchoW    th  '"^  ^'^""^"''^  *"  morbidness 

melancholy    the  companionship  kept  it  down 

could  "^  Tth     *°''*'"  '''  '''^'•-  "^^^-^  whenever' the. 
could.     If  there  were  any  fights  to  be  fought,  thei 


THE  MAKK-BELIEVEB  33 

took  them  together-  an<l   fn-  ♦».  * 

;-  The.  L  mC1:z\Iz;^^^^  "■^- 

time,  and  entered  an  upper  elas,  of  th  p  I  """^ 
where  they  sat  side  by  sfde  Jmitil  h  f"''^  ^'^""^ 
rated   them   for  reasons   of  T  ""  *""=''*''  ^^P"" 

there  was  no  J}tt        J  ^iscphne.     And   though 

ly  aua  uje  profession  of  law    anH  p^„ 

They  were"  h™  fiLrSr^f  1  ^  ^;~  --er. 
roy  being  the  older-  I1  -  ^    ""'^  ^'^t««°'  Con- 

life  that  was  tenant  "7"*  '"  ^"^  ^"•^«'  '"•«'»«  "* 
taken  no  part  Don's  mo?.,  ''°"'"  *^*"''  ^^^  ^ad 
'ittle  daughter  M^y  h^d  fi  .T- "°  '"'•■"^''^'  ^^'^  her 
his  father  was  a  bust  "'"""  '"'  ^''  ^ff^""""; 

Panions  of  li l^  LnTge'-^-whr  ^^07'^^  '''  ""'"■ 
Co-oy   he  was  alone  with  2  dog        ""  "°*  ""•" 

-dt  S:r  a'n^d :  fs:i  •'rr  ^-'^  ^"•-™- 

children  together  in  the  hLre  S  ''  *°  '^^^  ">«■' 
them,  and  he  had  an  !  V  .  "  '^"^  ^•'^  ^ith 
that  prevented  him  Z  '"'""''''''  "'  te^Peran.ent 
parties  of  young  fo'kVat'T"  ''""'^  '"  ^''^  ^'t"" 

came  more  frequent— wh J  1  Dexter"  be- 


34 


DON-A-DREAMS 


a  five-pointed  gold  medal  inscribed  "Awarded  to 
Francis  Grayson  Gregg  for  Good  Conduct,  Punctu- 
ality and  Progress";  he  had  entered  the  High  School 
at  the  head  of  his  year;  and  he  had  closed  up  on 
Don  so  nearly  that  if  the  elder  brother  ever  tripped 
on  an  exrmination,  now,  the  younger  would  surely 
draw  up  even  with  him. 

"You   're  wasting  too  much  time  reading  trash," 
their  father  said  to  Don,  one  night  when  he  found 
the  boy  on  a  chair  before  his  mother's  bookshelves. 
"I  've  finished  my  lessons,  sir,"  Don  pleaded. 
"What  's  that  you  're  taking?" 
It  was  a  copy  of  Beade's  "Put  Yourself  in  His  | 
Place."    Mr.  Gregg  drew  down  his  shaggy  eyebrows  I 
at  it.    "Put  it  back,"  he  ordered.    "That  's  no  book 
for  a  boy.     It   's  no  book  for  anyone.     Silly  trash.' 
Why    don't   you    read    something    to    improve    your 
mind?"     It  irritated  him  to  find  in  Don  the  samel 
sentimental  appetite  for  novels  which  his  unpractical  | 
wife  had  always  had.     Frankie  had  none  of  it.    He 
had  inherited  his  father's  brains. 

Don  put  up  the  book  reluctantly  and  turned  to  the  I 
door.     "And  you  might  as  well  understand  now," 
his  father  said,  "that  I  can't  send  you  both  to  the  I 
University.    And  if  Frankie  proves  himself  .  .  .better  f 
fitted  to  profit  by  it,  there  '11  be  no  favoritism  shorn  [ 
...  in  the  matter  ...  Do  you  hear!" 
"Yes,  sir,"  Don  said,  backing  out. 
His  father  opened   his  newspaper  with  the  satis- 
faction of  having  performed  his  parental  duties  with  I 
a  stern  impartiality;  and  Don  went  back  rebelliousljl 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER 


35 


Even  his  Satu  lyst  rveToT^^^^^^ 
twigirtheeartJ     r      ?*'  "deductions"  with  a 

-  h^ad  inr*,.«r;rr:;\irL^r^^  *s 

man-eating   tigers   in   the   Park      He   haS   fn      , 

h«  read  and  dreamed  and  studied    in  «  ?  ,  ' 

tude   with   his   dog,   under  Intl^bi:  g  eT/ ^t 
branches,  an>ong  the  corded  roots  of  clinging  firs   be 
side  the  cnsp  tinkle  of  little  bubbled  waterfaSr 

Conroy  knew  the  place,  but  he  did  not  ofteL  come 
with  Don-exeept  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  when  the^e 


36 


DON-A-DREAMS 


were  no  football  game,  to  play  o„d  his  home  was 

anl-Don'Sd""^"""'-     ^""^  *'''^  -"  "  »«"  d!" 
,n»  I     .,         f  ""^  ""'P"'*  *°  l"^  disturbed.     He  had 
made  himself  comfortable  on  a  little  knoll  of  „as, 
w.th  the  stream  at  his  feet  and  the  slim  wh"  eTm 
of  a  s„ver  b.rch  at  his  back;  Dexter  had  curled  hS 

his  paws.  bl,„k,„g  ,jeepi,y.  .^me  wood  sparrows 
twatered  and  quarreled  among  the  evergreens 

a  ^erib^'  '>.^".'  "'  "■"  '^'^y'^'y  ""  his  knees  and 
text  a?H  '\  ?  ^"f^  ""•'''  *""  ^^'^'^i'^tion  to  the 
text  and  marked  with  a  lead  pencil  the  words  he  did 

Dexttr then  H  ^'^  "  ""^^  *'"'*  "^  ^'^'^  °°t  -*-« 
Uexter  when  the  dog  pricked  up  its  ears.     He  was 

murmurmg:  'Then  answering  him-then  an.verlg 
SnT  A.  •"  "^  0,''y«««"«-the  wily  Odysseus-said 
King    Alcmous'  "_The    dog    sat    up,    its    nostrils 

whieh   they  had   come.     "  'Truly   it   is   a   beautiful 
hmg'    Quiet  sir."    The  dog  had  growled.    ''What" 

TherTlT  ""'  r'"    "^  '°°'^«''  "P  f™-  his  study 
Ihere  was  a  girl  approaching  through  the  trees. 

on  his^'hn  ?''  ""^  ""  ''"''''''^'  ""''  «^^d  his  attention 

tended  tn  '"  f  •^"*'°'''  "*  "''«'"^*''»'  ^"ch  he  in- 
^nded  to  maintem  until  she  had  passed.     But    in  a 

Ip^and^D  1  '':  "'"^^  °*  ^'^  'y^'  h«  -w "e 
ski^t'      t  u  '  ''"""'^  '"^"^  "t  the  hem  of  her 

skirt-which  came  almost  to  her  shoe-tops-barked  and 

zrLW:'''-  ^""^  "''^'^  '='°--  -^'t-d 

there.  He  raised  his  eyes  from  her  ankles-whieh 
were  neatly  turned-to  her  belt,  in  which  she  carr  ! 
a  bunch  of  violets-and  then  to  a  face  that  was  dimly 


THE  iVIAKE-BELlEVER 


37 

familiar  brown-oyod,  flushe.l,  and  greeting  him  with 
a  fnendly  ™>le  that  waited  to  be  remembered.  She 
Btood  m  the  .unlight,  he:-  h.n.l,  clasped  behind  her 
her  eyes  darK  .n  the  shado.v  .f  the  brim  of  her  hat 
her  teeth  wh.te  m  the  light;  and  the  adorable  dimple 
in  either  cheek  deepened  when  she  saw  that  he  did 
not  recognize  her. 

She  laughed.  A  blind  memory  groped  and  moved 
m  his  bram,  and  a  rush  of  blood  flamed  over  his  face. 
The  dog  was  barking  among  the  trees.  She  turned 
and^ealled  in  that  direction:  "He  does  n't  remember 

He  knew  then.     It  was  "Miss  Margaret'" 
He  started  to  get  up,  catching  at  his  books  as  they 
slipped  from  his  knees,  and  fumbling  for  his  pocket 
h  r!    T.'         ■•""'  "^"^  ^''  'ead-pencil.     Remember 

was  hiJ-M""    M  *"'°  *'''*  *■'  ™"'°«  ^'""'^  ^<"»an 

n    t  ,f  :\^^'"-«"et"  had  come  on  him  with  such 

a  shock  that  he  did   not  kn„.-  what  he  was  about 

*  I  I°l     ?      bewildered    double-consciousness,    he 

yo^tt  MM  ""^'"^  *"  P'*"^  "P  *he  scattered 
^olumes.  Miss  Margaret!  And  then  he  came  sud- 
denly into  clear  possession  of  his  senses,  and  stood 
up  with  a  tremulous  smile,  a  book  in  one  hand  and 
his  pencil  in  the  other.  "Yes,  I  do,"  he  said  huskily. 
You  're  Miss  Margaret." 

"How   did   you   know?"     she   cried,   beaming   on 
him        By  the  photograph?    Have  I  changed?" 

The  excitement  in  her  eyes  was  catching.    He  stam- 
mered,  with  a  broken  laugh:  "N-no.     You  took  it 
away-the  photograph.     I  have  n't  any  " 
"Oh  yes!"    she  recollected.    "I  thought.  .       But 


38 


DON-A-DKEAMS 


why  did  I?"    she  accused   Am.    "You  tried  to-" 

"Well,"  he  dared.     "What  did  you  do  to  mineT 
Jfou  tore  It  up-and  threw  it  away  " 

"I  did  n't!  Oh!"  She  was  scarlet.  "How  did 
you  find  out?"  The  dog  came  barking  and  julrng 
about  her,  will  Conroy  stumbling  o'er  him'  "He 
did  nt  remember!"  she  cried.  "How  did  you 
knowT  .  .  He  has  n't  changed  a  bit.  .  .  Ig  n't  U 
tunny;  he  called  me  'Miss  Margaret'!" 

drown  Dexter's  yelping.  "It  was  my  plan.  I  wanted 
JO  surpnse  you  ''    "I  told  her  we'd  find  you  her  .'' 

I  almos  called  ^nr  Con  on  my  way  out,  too."  "Is  n't 
fun!  'Q„„,,  sir!"  "Just  look  at  him!" 
Down,  sir!" 

Conroy   caught   the    dog   and   muzzled   it   with    a 

sZn'J  7k'""''  *'  '•"•'"  *'••''"«  °*  *"«'■•  voices,  un- 
supported  by   Its   barking;   and   they   stopped,    self- 

rd~n."'^^^"^*^'"^-'"^-"^--^'^Vasit 

Don  looked  from  Conroy  to  her  with  a  quick  change 
to  bashfulness  that  took  him  in  the  middle  of  a  smik 
and  froze  It.  She  was  "Miss  Margaret"-and  she  was 
not^  _  I  did  n  t  know  any  other  na^e,"  he  apologized. 

"Didn't  you? 
"No.  You-" 
"Richardson." 

He   felt   almost  as  if  they  needed  an   introduction. 
You  knew  mine?" 


Didn't  I  ever  tell  you?" 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER 


39 
"Your  cousin  told  me."    They  both  looked  at  Con- 
roy,  and  were  unable  to  get  their  eyes  back  to  each 
other  again.     Conroy  saw  the  situation  and   Busied 
himself  with  the  dog,  snapping  his  fingers  at  it,  and 
catching  at  its  ears.    They  struggled  with  an  abashed 
silence    until    Conroy-thinking    loyally    that    they 
uould   get   along   better   without   him-said:   "Well 
1  promised  to  be  back  home  right  away.  .      I  gucs^ 
I  better  be  going."    And  in  spite  of  their  confused 
efforts  to  keep  him,  he  did  succeed,  with  the  aid  of 
Dexter,  in  getting  himself  off  the  scene. 
She  looked  around  her.    "What  a  beautiful  place'" 
He  replied,  lamely:  "Yes,  is  n't  it." 
She  saw  his  books.    "Were  you  studying?" 
He  tried  to  think  of  something  more  to  say  than 
the  bald  affirmative,  and  ended  by  faltering  "N-no." 
She   stooped    down    to   the   Odyssey.     "Is   n't    it 
funny?    What  is  it?" 
"Greek." 

"Really?"    She  sat  down  on  the  grass.    "Is  it— is 
it  as  interesting  as  the  book  you—  " 

He  caught  the  picture  that  was  in  her  mind-the 
picture  of  the  two  of  them  with  their  heads  together 
over  the  fairy  tales,  on  his  aunt's  porch  steps-and 
he  laughed.     "No— not  quite  I" 
"What  is  it  like?    What  is  it  all  about?" 
He   came   down   slowly,   on   one   knee   beside   her 
It  s-I  can't  read  it  without  a  trans-but  it  's  a  good 
deal  of  a  fairy  tale  too." 

"And   there  are  n't  any  pictures."     She  turned 
over  the  pages,  careful  not  to  look  at  him  for  fear 


40 


DON-A-UKEAAIS 


•he  .hould  make  him  ghy  again.    "It  •«  v,k.  th..  fl«. 

^^^  We  don't  .tud,  it-at  II..to„.     Oc-rn^an  i,  bad 

"Are  you  studying  German f" 
Oh,  she  was  not  studyine  miieh  nf  »„.,.i.- 
music  and  singing.    And  sheh,  .      '*7*^"K-''«''Pt 

fluBers      »»  „i  "    '"'wara.     jjon    watched    her 

suggestion  of  fem.ni  J  dairti^ei 'an^' eH"  Td 

intozieated  him,  so  hat  hfs  ets  burn^T'"':'  '™' 
he  leaned  forward  h,J,i.l  ,  ^  "^  ^^'''  «"«' 
see  her  better TndeX  b^  "'7.'" \'"'^  ''"^^^^   *° 

■ooked  up,  half  JAU«„riught  The  *'  ".'  -^'^ 
tleness  and  reverence  th«t  «L  ^  ^  ^^'^^  ««"" 
dor;  and  she  wirnot  afraid         '"'""  *'""^"'  ^'«  "" 


THE  MAKB-BELIEVEB 


_,  41 

^■agerly,  and  listonwl  a«  hungrily   as  if  f h    ,        ^   "* 

rn^-o.tj.irs^anaa^'^;;;^;'':-^^^^ 

:h:t„fei;%Hr''r  at:  ar^  '^"^''  "••"-•' 

me  of  you-a  little  "  ^        '"'""'  reminded 

Don  was  afraid  to  acknowledge  that  he  h«d  ™    . 

_^ou  d,dn  t  forget  me,  though,"  she  said. 

teaSg^dlaS-hirr  f  Z'?^  ^"^-^  -'"«-  *"«' 

whotwaT'-^'sr  "'1'r  "'"•''•  "^  «°°»  -  ""  •'»- 
WHO  X  was.       She  smded  at  the  thmiLht  ,.<>  n 

delighted    eagerness    to   have   her    mS    nf'"""'^' 

snnh  „     >  ''""''"^'   underneath.     It  was  just 

Ht  le  \^    V  '"'  """'"  '■''^^  ^P^-^ted  to  find  the 
httle  boy  whom  she  remembered      And   1,»  lu 

-e  boy    though  evidently  ^i.L^t^Z  t 
place  of  h.s  make-believes,  and  he  was  n.ore  reserved! 


Ft':  i 


42 


DON-A-DREAMS 


She  liked  him,  and  she  knew  it.  On  her  way  out 
with  Conroy,  she  had  been  wondering  whether  she 
would  hke  him.    She  was  glad  that  she  did. 

As  for  Don,  he  bad  no  feminine  introspection,  and 
his  happiness  held  him  in  a  dazed  silence.  He  was 
conscious  only  that  a  young  divinity-for  she  was 
already  more  than  a  girl  to  him-had  come  glowing 
and  beautiful  out  of  dreamland,  and  sat  beside  him 
m  an  odor  of  violets,  and  talked  to  him  with  a  musical 
soit  voice. 

"The  water  sounds  so  pretty,"  she  said 

it  mlt''^'  "'""'"^'^^  "^  ''^  '''""^  '*  *"'•  y°"'  ■* 

"Why!    How?" 

"It   'a  the  stream  running  over  some  big  stones 

""t,""?,  '.,?^'  *'"'  ^""■"l-by  changing  the  stones." 
Really?" 

"Would  you  like  to?" 

"Why,  of  course  I" 

The  tiny  waterfall  was  just  below  their  knoll,  at 
the  end  of  a  bright  shallow  where  three  boulders  held 
back  the  bed  of  the  stream  and  dropped  the  current 
brawling  over  their  shoulders  into  a  dark  pool.  Don 
helped  her  down  the  steep  bank  to  the  water's  edge- 

IMeTfi!  7:,\.«^«'*!'»«°t  ""d  more  laughter,  with 
little  cries  of  delight  from  her  and  a  furious  barking 
from  Dexter,  they  loosened  stones  from  the  bank  and 
put  them  where  the  plangent  water  would  strike  and 
curl  about  them;  and  with  every  stone,  sure  enough, 
they  got  a  new  note. 
Then  they  followed  down  the  changes  of  the  stream 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER  43 

to  a  green  slope  where,  Don  knew,  the  first  violets 
always  budded;  and  when  he  found  only  leaves  and 
no  blossoms  yet-for,  of  course,  it  was  too  early  in 
the  year-she  took  some  of  the  hot-house  flowers  from 
her  belt,  made  holes  in  the  ground  with  the  pin  of 
her  brooch,  and  stuck  the  stems  in,  playfully 
"There!"  she  said.    "Now,  you  pick  them." 

He  took  them  out  again,  one  by  one,  careful  not 
to  break  the  delicate  stalks,  and  held  them  out  to  her 
laughing.  ' 

"Oh,    thank   you."     She    accepted    them    with    a 
sparkling  gravity.    "Are  n't  they  sweet!    May  I  have 
them  all?    Would  n't  you  like  to  keep  some?" 
Don  stammered:  "Ye— e— es." 
"Have  you  a  pin?     No,  I   '11  put  them  in  your 
buttonhole." 

He  could  not  look  at  her  face;  he  kept  his  eyes  on 
her  frail  wrists  as  she  reached  to  the  lapel  of  his 
coat  and  put  the  violets  in  the  buttonhole  and  patted 
them  into  place.  When  she  stood  back,  a  little  flushed 
at  her  own  daring,  he  raised  his  eyes  to  hers;  and  the 
look  that  passed  between  them  was  as  innocent  as 
affection  and  as  tender  as  a  caress. 

Hours  later,  they  came  loitering  down  the  avenue 
towards  home;  and  they  came  so  slowly  that  Dexter- 
running  ahead  of  them  impatiently,  waiting,  and  then 
runnmg  back-eovered  every  foot  of  the  way  again 
and  again.  They  were  still  talking,  but  with  an  easy 
friendliness  now,  and  with  a  confident  meeting  of  their 
glances.  The  snn,  low  in  the  west  behind  them,  slanted 
Its  long  rays  on  them  in  a  glory  as  they  came.     The 


44 


DON-A-DRBAMS 


oarly  April  breeze,  soft  with  its  first  evening  mist 

Sht    H  '1''?  "'"*""*  ''™-''-  --  '""■•head: 

called  to  them  from  a  green  lawn,  as  they  passed    a 
throaty  promise  of  Spring.  ' 


VI 

WrhJwt'ofT'r.Tl*/"  ''"*^''^°  knickerboekers; 
,»  ti?  ,^  *'"^'  •""^  ''^P'  h™  «s  clean-minded 
a«  the  girl  herself;  and  if  it  was  love  that  had  ake„ 
h.m,  ,t  was  a  love  that  desired  only  to  ook  at  he 
and  hsten  to  her  when  she  was  wL  him  and  t„ 
dream  of  her  and  wish  for  her  when  she  was  away 
It  was  a  boy's  love  that  had  no  burning,  a  preZt 

gu.lt  of  the  past.     But  it  filled  his  thoughts  with 
pictures  of  her  that  came  between  him  and  S    p^ 

i''rcJrirt;r,^^^-^-'"-----r 

He  came  to  the  house  for  her  quite  openly,  until 
she  not,ced  some  of  his  school-fellows  grinning  ;th"m 
across  the  street  as  he  walked  with  her,  and  she  und ^ 

tte  nhot*  *'T  T"  '''''  "'"■'  -  '"^^y  "«d  Tit 

i?  the  tl'^f  t„  P*":  *"'*'  ^'^  '^'"'^  ^°  ""^t  h- 
Sh„  ^  i  '^  ,  ^'  ^"'''  °°  '""^  "•"'J  to  their  ravine 
She  d,d  not  let  him  come  out  to  her  of  an  evenZ 
because  she  had  heard  his  aunt  say  that  he  must  nS 
neglect  h,s  studies;  and  she  made  him  bring  his  book 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER  45 

with  him  when  they  went  on  their  walks.  She  even 
encouraged  h.m  to  work,  by  making  him  read  his 
ranslafon  aloud  to  her  and  by  pretending  to  be  in- 
ter«,ted  w.th  him  in  the  solution  of  his  "deductions." 
And  a^  long  as  he  was  with  her,  he  could  work.  It 
was  when  he  was  at  his  desk  in  school,  or  shut  up 
m  h.s  room  at  home,  that  she  kept  him  idle,  his  ey^ 

his  hand     """"""^  °*  ^"''  """^  ^'^  ^'^^  forgotten  in 
Conroy  accompanied  them  sometimes,  but  not  often. 
He  could  be  with  her  of  an  evening,  when  Don  could 
not;  and  though  there  was  no  rivalry  between  them, 
he  knew  that  Don  would  not  wish  to  share  her,  and 
boyishly  he   held  aloof.     They  went  alone  to   their 
green  alcoves  and  grassed  recesses,  like  a  pair  of  lovers 
m  a  poem,  but  with  a  childish  spirit.     There  were 
blue-birds  to  wonder  at,  the  first  hepaticas  to  find,  a 
water-rat  for  Dexter  to  go  mad  about,  and  the  lurk- 
mg  violets,  at  last,  in  a  sudden,  shy  profusion.    Don 
broke  oflf  the  odorous  branches  of  firs  and  hemlocks 

ra  ned;  and  then  he  backed  the  seat  with  a  screen  of 
foliage  and  made  he:'  a  rough  bower.  As  the  weather 
grew  warmer,  she  felt  less  like  romping  along  the 
stream  and  they  sat  oftener  in  this  arbor,  and  while 
she  listened  dreamily,  with  her  head  against  his  arm 
he  read  aloud  from  his  Spenser's  "Faerie  Queene  " 
Many  of  the  lines  were  printed  in  asterisks,  because- 
Uon  explained-the  manuscript  had  been  old  and  torn 
he  supposed.     But  there  was  much  there  of  knights 

yclad  in  mighty  arms"  who  rode  through  the  woods 


46 


DON-A-DJJEAMS 


of  Faery  to  slay  monsters  and  rescue  maids;  and  if 
she  sometimes  objected  that  this  was  not  study  Don 
was  able  to  assure  her  that  Spenser  was  on  his  "Eng 

cross  Knight  and  she  Una  "on  her  palfrey  slow  "  he 
dad  not  tell  her,  and  she  did  not  gucM.  ' 

It  was  all  very  innocent  and  friendly- though  Don 

had  some  bewildering  moments  when  his  heart  Imd 

o  swell  with  a  choked  longing  in  his  chest     tTch 

two  days  of  wind  and  rain  kept  her  in  the  house,  wS 

he  could  only  speak  with  her  under  conditi^M  o 

~  Of  iT"'"-'" '"'  "«^  «*  *»■« "«« -^-  th 

and  tl  .  "  "■'  '"^  oppression  on  the  spirits- 
S  ht   f '"^Z  ^"f  t-««lored  toy  had  used  to  raisf 

that  )„7t  5  '"*  *°  '■*'*  "°  "^  g^'^^t  P««-ODe 
that  had  been  brought  down  by  the  wind  in  its 
branches  and  the  rain  in  its  roots-he  put  his  arm 

h  rl  T  'T^"'''  ""''■'  '"^^  -««  ««d  He  sprea" 
her  hand  on  his  knee  and  compared  his  own  brown 

fcissed  It  She  Answered  the  caress  with  a  little  pres- 
h^Ve:    "^'''  ""-t-indedly,  a  far-away  look  in 

"What  '11  you  do  when  I  go  away?"    she  asked. 
His  heart  was  stifling  him.     "I  don't  know      Are 
you  going  away!" 

"Mother  says  I  must.    She  says  I  don't  look  well.' 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER  47 

He  drew  her  closer,  and  when  she  turned,  their 

to  hers        No,"  she  whispered.     "Don't  .  .  .  please 

Uon.    I  promised  mother.    She  said  it  was  n't  ri«ht  "' 

He  released  her,   his   lips  trembling,   and   turn;d 

Zl'         "^""T"*'  ^^^  P"*  «  '"'"d  °"t  and  touched 
his  arm.       Read  me  something,  Don,"  she  said 
And  neither  of  them  understood  what  had  happened. 

They  did  not  .mderstand  even  when  they  came  to 
say  their  last  good-byes,  on  the  night  before  her  depar- 
ture. It  was  a  Sunday,  she  was  to  go  in  the  early 
mornmg;  and  all  her  friends  and  her  mother's  had 
called  to  spend  the  evening.  Don  sat  in  an  awkward 
silence  without  being  able  to  find  a  word  to  say 
she  followed  him  to   the  poich  when  he  went  out 

bye  "  he^said  """^  *^"''  '^*'^™"     "^'"'  ^'^^^ 

"Oood-hye." 

He  waited.     "You  '11  be  back»" 
"Yes,"  she  promised.    "I  'U  be  back  " 

tated  '""w!!/"'  '"'"•'•    *^'  P"*  ""  ^^  ""P'  ^"^  ^''^- 
rated.        Will  you  write  to  me?" 

"Oh  yes!    I  'U  write— often. " 

He  went  down  a  step.  "All  right, "  he  said  bravely. 
When  he  reached  the  path,  he  added  "Good-bye  " 

She  watched  him  out  to  the  gate.  He  turned  there- 
and  she  standing  in  the  light  of  the  door,  waved 
iier  hand  and  called  "Good-bye." 

They  parted,  as  young  people  do,  hopefully.  The 
future,  they  thought,  was  all  theirs  to  meet  again  in. 


48 


DON-A-DREAMS 


Z  It   th.  "^'J""'  ^"^  "  **"*'  """J  '"y  blink, 

window.     What- what   was   it   that   had   happened? 
M»s  Marearet,      She  had-He  groped  undeATS 
W  for  h.8  watch;  ,t  was  eight  o'clock.    She  had  gone 
Miss  Margaret  had  gone. 
The  light  suddenly  looked  hard  and  cold,  framed 

bank.  The  day  held  no  promise.  He  lay  back  on  his 
pillow  and  stared  at  the  ceiling. 

th«t  i^  ""V"  '"'*'"°  ^"*  '"  ^""^  «*^'-^als  of  thought 
that  character  grows;  and  for  the  next  few  days  Don 
went  about  in  a  quiet  muse  that  aged  him  mor  than 
he  knew  He  shunned  the  ravine;  he  worked  with 
a  sort  of  stupid  diligence;  and  not  untilSaLday 

Sk      BuT  "  Tf  r  ''"'  ""^^''"^  •»»*  »  -boo' 

-PaeH^  n  -f''*'"''^''^    '"'"■'''"«'    be    took    up    his 

Faerie  Queene"  again,  and  with  the  first  words  of 

m  t:Zt\fr^'l  '"T^  ^"PP^''  '•^  "*  tbe  heart 
,jioI  T  ^"'^  '°  •"'  P°<=''«*  «°d  burried  out  of 

doors,  his  cap  over  his  eyes,  half-running 

He  came  breathless  to  the  top  of  the  Park  to  the 
tree  under  which  she  used  to  meet  him;  and  th  r 
ho  stopped,  and  smiled,  and  drew  a  bug  brea  h 
a  i  b  "1"*  "V"""'  '*  ""*  ^-y  ^'o-'y  bis  head 
thattn  7  '  •""'^  """^  ^^  """"^  *°  *be  narrow  path 
that  led  down  into  the  gully,  he  stepped  back  to  let 
her  go  ahead  of  him,  and  riodded  and  laughed 

At  midday,  he  came  out  into  the  road  again  with 
the  same  slow  air.  There  was  no  pathetic  wlstM 
ness  ,n  his  face.  There  was  something  set  anlbl  nd 
m  his  ga.e,  but  there  was  also  a  dreamy  sm"      And 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER  49 

:"f  vti""'"'^  "'  ""^  ^"P^''  "«  ''"•l  a  little  bunch 

to  thf  hiusJltuVrw^  "r^*^  '-  -  ''^  -tun. 
composition,  in  sp  1  nf  >  °''^'"  ""  "  "'"""^'^^m 
''Vour  loving  frieS°J'';i'r  ^°''"  "<J  >*« 
perfumed  fafntj  anki^fn  r^'^''^^""-''  ^*  '''"' 
he  had  once  put  it  in  tt, Me  I  ""'^  •^"*  "''«» 
a  dried  starfish  and  a  b.V^f  hr  ^  '°  ^'''"^  ••*  '«P* 
other  boyish  treasure    ^'*  °.*  ^'"'^en  agate  and  some 

cousin  wLtler/rom  the  ,1  T,  f "™  *"  "•  His 
he  pleaded  that  he  h  j  '  rl  \^-'  ""^  "*  •""»«' 
^ons;  and  as  soon  ascl^T:  '"^  ^'""^'^y'"  'es- 

and  also  a  p  nknlfe  ^th  v'^^'^  ''^  '''^  P-'oket- 
hranches  for^ "s^t  Iderthf  fi^^  ^"^  *°  -'  •>- 

w^rr;srsafsr;nV£?-r- 
::^^^;f=ri^^F-srieS 

wriJirdrt^'witt  T  °^"-''  --^ 

he  lifted  his  hand  to  hfs  knee  SisT"'  '"  '^'"^' 
and  twitched  in  a  sort  of  ?™  f  '"^''ngers  trembled 
-and  the  blood  ruled  to  Tf  ^''^'''^-    ^^  *"»«•! 


60 


DON-A-DREAMS 


VII 

The  months  that  followed  are  no  more  to  Ke  de- 
scribed  than   t).>    love-faneies   of   a   girl.     The   boy 
worked  over  his   books  with  a  mind  that  was  in  a  mist 
and  as  soon  as  he  was  free  of  school  he  went  to  hij 
make-believe    meetings    like    an    opium-eater    to    his 
dreams     Of  what  he  did  there,  of  what  he  thought 
there,  he  wrote  her  not  a  word.    He  filled  his  letters 
with  news  of  the  acquaintances  whom  she  had  left 
in   Coulton-particularly  of  Conroy,   for  whom   she 
inquired.    Her  own  letters  were  made  up  of  apologies 
for  not  being  able  to  write  more  frequently  and  of 
accounts  of  her  boating  and  bathing  and  picnicking 
about  the  lake.    It  was  a  boy  and  girl  correspondence, 
more  idle  than  chatter.    He  told  her  that  Dexter  was 
not  very  well";  that  the  stream  in  the  ravine  had 
almost  dried  out  to  a  trickle  because  a  farmer  had 
dammed  it  up  to  make  a  pool  for  his  cows,  that  the 
church  had  been  .truck  by  lightning;  that  he  was 
writing  on  his  "exams."     She  sent  him   blue-print 
pictures  of  herself  in  a  group  of  cottagers  on  the 
beach      He   pasted   them   in   an   old   "Composition 
Book"  with  her  letters. 

When  his  examinations  were  finished  and  his 
school  closed,  he  began  to  make  plans.  He  would 
go  up  to  the  University  for  four  years.  Then  he 
would  take  his  course  in  the  law  school  and  accept 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER 


he   could   have   told    Conroy.     B„t   Dextr  s    in 
ended  suddenly-he  was  fo,.n-i  ^^^  *   '^^^ 


52 


DON-A-DREAMS 


and  havo  a  cottage  at  the  lake  to  spend  their  gum- 
mers  in.  He  would  not  care  if  he  were  never  famous 
-unless,  of  course,  she  wished  him  to  be.  All  he 
wanted  was  to  make  her  happy.  He  felt  he  could 
do  that  because  he— (He  hesitated  a  long  time  over  the 
word;  he  had  never  known  anyone  to  use  it,  outside 
of  a  book.  But  there  was  no  other  word  for  itj  he 
understood  that  women  expected  a  man  to  say  it; 
and  with  a  tremulous  pen  he  wrote  it:)— because  h(' 
loved  her. 

He  signed  it,  blushing  like  a  girl,  and  then  he 
turned  his  back  on  the  window,  put  his  head  down, 
and  shamefacedly  kissed  the  paper.  He  ran  out  to 
post  it,  so  as  to  have  it  away  from  his  eyes  as  soon 
as  possible ;  and  he  sat  down  to  wait  for  the  reply. 

He  was  still  waiting  when  his  father,  coming  home 
from  his  office  early,  sent  the  maid  upstairs  to  tell 
Don  that  he  was  wanted  in  the  library.  He  went 
downstairs  frightened.  His  father  was  sitting  by  his 
smoking-table  with  a  newspaper  in  his  hand.  "Well," 
he  said,  "you  've  failed  in  your  examinations." 

Don's  first  thought  was  that  it  would  postpone  his 
marriage. 

"Mr.  McCutcheon  tells  me  that  your  work  during 
the  Spring  term  was  uniformly  bad." 

Postpone  his  marriage!  What  would  she  say  to 
that? 

"I  think  I  warned  you  that— what  would  happen 

if  you  continued  to  waste  your  time.     Your  brother 

has  passed  his  examinations  at  the  head  of  his  class." 

To  work  hard!    To  get  rich!    He  had  failed  at  the 

very  beginning! 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER 


53 

"I  don't  intend  to  gaeriflce  his  future  to  you«     I 

told  you  I  could  not  «nd  you  both  to  college"     He 

threw  dowB  the  paper  deeisively.     "J  will  get  you 

a  P-'t'on  down  town-i„  a  bank,  if  I  can."  '      '"" 

But-but,"  Don  stammered 

H.8  father  turned  away.     He  was  used  to  court 

r ioHaTwi?  '^^  --'■'  ^"*  ^«  ^-  ^^^ 
Don  stood,  stupefied  with  the  horror  of  the  disa,tc-r 
Ihen  he  ran  for  his  room,  stumbling  up  the  rtairs 
holding  h.s  breath,  in  a  desperate  attempt  TgTZl 
of  sigh    before  he  lost  control  of  himself  ^ 

The  httle  room  that  had  hidden  so  many  of  his 

the  last.     For  though  he  cried  like  a  child  for  five 

s  ^ratT^H  •  '^  r'^'  "P'  *''«'  --^  ^I'oo" 
won't  V        ■■'   ''"'^,''°''l"^d:   "No!     No,  you 

won  t.    .   .       No,  you  won't!    No,  you  won't!"    He 

wife.  He  had  promised  her  that  he  would  go  to  col- 
lege-and  be  a  lawyer.    His  father  stop  him? 

.nnJ""  /''  ^''  '^°'''  ^"^^'^  his  face  frantically 
onH       -^  /r   "Starred"   in   mathematics.     Ho 

Hrfarsroplim/*'^  '"^^'— '  ^^-^-«- 

sidfof'tT  .'"*"  ^'"T^''  «i"i°g--°oni-at  the  other 
side  of  the  town-with  his  cap  set  awiy  on  his  head 
pale.^a„d  w.th  a  face  that  startled  her.  ^'V^i.yXlf' 

He  took  the  newspaper  from  his  pocket.     "I   'vo 
tailed    m    my    examination-in    mathematics."     His 


^  ■ 


54 


DON-A-DRBAMS 


voice  .hook,  but  not  with  tear..  "Father  «iy.  I  c«.'t 
eo  to  college.  If  I  promi*  to  pay  you  back,  will 
you  lend  me  the  money  f"  »'■'''•  "««.  wiii 

"Don!"    She  started  toward  him 
„.n^*  ''.»«'"^«way;  it  wa«  no  time  for  care-e..    "i 

knoTi    °!  ^t"  ""'*''?»«'"'  »t  'he  Supplemental,, 
him  Iinurt-Imuatgo."    Hi.  voice  failed 

thi2'**  '  ''^'"°"""  ^"  ""*''•  "^'•'    ^°  ■*»  "««•"  « 

'.Tf^?^  ^^  ""''*  «""^  »«  both-that  Prankie"- 

John!       she   called   to   her   husband.     "John  I" 

He  was  already  at  the  door.     "What  do  you  thinkf 

uZ7Xll^^  ^  '«*  ^-  -  -  -"-  nfw' 

Frafkle-'^'''    '"    "^'^    '^°'    "*    '«'*''•      ^e    says 

Mr.  McLean  came  slowly  into  the  room.     "Well  " 

SerawU""'**''"*"'^^''-'"     He  did  not  to 

September  .f  he  'd  let  me.     He-he  says  he   '11  get 
nie  a  place  m  a  bank."  •* 

His  uncle  snorted  contemptuously.  "In  »  hank 
Is  n't  that  like  him?"  in  a  bank. 

"He  sha 'n't  do  it!"  she  cried.  "What  a  shame! 
Sankie-""''    *"'"    "'*    *^    """"^    I^-"     And 

''If  I  could  borrow  the  money,"  Don  pleaded  his 
vujr-hp  beginning  to  tremble. '"I-i  eou^Sy'i: 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER 


65 

.^^a^rl'-r^fL"^  •'''"  ^"'"^y-'  »>«  •''""owed  and 
stood  up  to  It.    "How  muchr" 

Skt^of  "«'  ^f'  '"  """'^  ""»  *™-t  "i.  voice, 
hi.  co«t  front.  "Hmmm.  Go  ahead  with  your  ex- 
ammation.."  He  took  off  Don',  cap  for  hta  and 
patted  h>^  on  the  .houlder.  "Go  ahead  and  d"' your 
«orlc_  And  when  Don  had  stammered  through  hi. 
thank,  and  got  him«,If  out  of  the  room  agaT  hi" 
uncle  «ud:  "That-that  brother  of  yours!  wLt  's 
the  matter  with  him  anywayj     Educate  a  b^  tha 

:„Vn°A  I"  '"*.i'"  '"  "  """'''   ^'•«'  "-  --"i 

TmoZtt  tti"^.'."!  \^tSc"'  ''''':  •"*- 
foo  H»  »r  "'""K"^-  1  »  send  Conroy  with  him, 
too.     He  can  take  some  special  course.     He  ought  to 

tWs"  o°.r  !r  "'  '•"  ''""■*'*  "»»»*  ""-  --h  iod 
this  college  business  is." 

his  father  also  noticed  it  at  the  evening  meal-  for 
hough  Don  did  not  speak,  neither  did  he  sulk  he  was 
thoughtful,  without  being  deprea«ed;  and  he  left  the 
UWe  before  his  father  in  violation  of  the  parental 
P^Lf  K  •*  ''u*'"''^  °*  *'«'  ^•'^"^  ^ith  his  aunt- 
olute,  and  she  l«tened  with  an  invalid's  helplessness, 
and  wept  over  him.    "Your  father  means  it  for  the 

^y"'\'^:^l''"''^'^-    "I  l™"- he  does.    Bethinks 
you  would  be  better  at  work." 

«ll"h  ^"""m   ^°  *°  '"'"'^■"  ^"'^  ^•'^;  ''nd  that  was 
all  he  would  say. 

He  went  to  his  room,  and  remained  there,  waiting. 


^®  nON-A-DREAMS 

And  w,thout  another  word,  he  wen7o„r  '       "  "'""■ 

iJon  worked  until  midnieht     Then  »,'*,,. 
from  his  breast  pocket  anf knelJ  1       .^  ^'^  °°*" 
with  it  clasped  In  his  hands     Wh^  *°  ^''  P'^^*'^ 
it  was  under  his  pillow    "  ''"  ••'  ^^"*  *°  ^-^-l' 

Donald,"  it  read.     "M^rjaret  0/™"°"     7^   '''■'"• 
me  your  letter.     You  a,^T«'t  '  ^^  ''«'^° 

M.eh  things  for  years  veT  *"'t*^V™°g  *«  think  of 
I  do  not'wish  her  to  Lk  'i^""'^  ^-^''-^  --  -<' 
finished  her  schoohn^  „/  ,  5'"  ""*"  «'"^  ^a. 
know  her  own  ^^d  y.  T''  '""^  ''  "'''  -^"""gh  *» 
tend  to,  and  I  do  not  fJl  IT"  ^"^  ^'"^^'^^  *°  «*' 
waste  yo°r  tfme  „  °\*'"*  "''""•  "^  y""  should 
When  you  have  takn  T  T'"'  """e^Pondenee. 
better  L  to  I,  ink  of  f  "';.'^^^««^-''owever,   it  is 

young.     I  was  X  VheaJThar?''''  ""'''  *"" 
/    10  near  that  your  pretty  dog 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVER 


had  died    Remember  me  to  your  aunt.    I  have  M 
run?   Then^h"  ""T"  *'■"''  ™'*^  '""^  "»««  «*  a  bank- 

And  Donald  was  no  longer  a  boy. 
-t  Eastern  poi.^  ZlZll^TZVorZlZZ 

were  as  long  as  he  passed  the  examinations  in  his 


58 


DON-A-DREAMS 


course.    It  was  she  who  packed  his  trunk-sitting  in 

tissue  paper  as  white  as  her  own  hands-with  the 
eyes  of  a  mother  who  is  sending  her  boy  into  those 
spiritual  wars  of  the  world  which  have  made  he^ 
husband  a  stranger  to  her.    And  it  was  she.  unseen, 

when  h?  f  1  ^""u"^'  *°  ^™  ^""^  t''^  window 
when  he  turned,  with  Conroy,  at  the  street  comer, 
and  saw  only  the  old  house  standing  there,  strangely 
dead  and  mute,  a  thing  of  the  past  already,  all  the 
glow  of  young  expectation  gone  from  it  into  the  un- 
known  scenes  to  which  he  was  hastening. 


PARTn 
THE  DAY-DREAMEB 


u 


green 

Its  W£ 

ations 

on  eit 

rode  i 

a  war 

pareni 

ease; 

tion  a 

nniver 

Rome 

revere) 

looked 

the  sti 

sumeth 

cheekb 

transpi 

which 

of  ent 

forehet 

His 

the  gro 

of  disti 


rpHET  arrived  at  the  college  gates  on  a  late  Sep- 

i;n  af^hP  "n™"""'  ^f  '"^  *°  '"""^  ««™««  the 
green  at  the     Norman  pile"  which  was  "  'Varsity  " 

Its  walls,  romantically  ivied,  rested,  as  if  without  found- 
.ons  on  the  perfect  level  of  the  lawn;  it  waa  flanked, 
on  either  wmg,  by  large  and  solemn  oaks;  its  towers 
rode  m  a„  autumn  sunlight  that  mellowed  them  with 
a  warn  tone-hke  an  old  landscape  painter's  trans- 
parent "glaze  '-as  if  rich  with  culture  and  ripe  with 
ease;  and  against  the  background  of  the  raw  civiliza 
tion  around  it,  that  artful  imitation  of  an  English 
university  had  the  effect  on  Don  of  the  fi..t  sighTof 
Rome  on  a  pilgrim.     Surprised,   in  a  sort  of  eager 
reverence,  his  lips  parted,  flushed  under  the  eyes   he 
-ked  at  It  as  if  he  were  a  young  novice  come  Z 
the  studious  quiet  of  a  cloister.     There  was  suddenly 
something   beautiful    in   hfe   face,    for   although   his 
heekbones  wer^  high  and  his  lips  thin,  he  had  that 
transparent    paleness-as    clear    as    fine    porcelain- 
which  seems  to  light  up  from  within  at  the  first  glow 
of  enthusiasm;  and  his  eyes,   under  a  boyish  wide 
forehead,  were  the  speaking  eyes  of  a  poet 

His  coi^in-browner,  sturdier,  his  feet  firmer  on 
he  ground-looked  the  buildings  over  with  a  shadow 
of  distaste.    For  him,  there  was  something  alien  and 


62 


DONA-DREAMS 


nad  the  same  vague  fe..lin»  ^t  a-     .  .  '  """^  ^ 

to   irritate  him^Lt  wW     '^*'''*''''«°°  that  wa. 

■'English  accent"  of  soj'oTh?;/"."'   *^'   ""'**"' 
he  was  still   looking  T^<        ?■  *""'^*''-    ^ut  while 

athletes  in  the  Srt  hrl  ^""'''^  *'"""  "*  y<"i»g 
field  came  Janingl'™!"""*"""  "'  "'^  '«'*'"'' 
baU  and  dodging  with  i^  a^H  "r^""'  P'^'"«"  ^^e 
interest  with  a  qSk  cha^  T"'"'  ""'""'^  "P  ^is 
Don,"  he  said,  'T'l'  be  that  /t?'?'""'  "^^y- 
They  Ve  been  tWining  alf sltr  •''  '^''"'*^  *^'^- 
Don  nodded,  abstractedly 

this  gre.°°'"  ^""^^  ^-^''^<'-     "I-efs  'get  into 

Anglican,"  tTkL^he^n  "1'^  ^'^«^^'  "^^^  ^S- 

aprepamiorfrthe3t„roVt''h?""'^  ^''""^^  - 
Gregg  McLean,  aS  19  pLw"'^  ".^'^  "^"""'y 
student  in  Modern  lli.      ^'''5yt«"an, "   a   special 

they  en«,lled  tuh  the  Zt  /^  '^^•'«"'  «"«"-■ 
lectures  they  were  to  attenH^"^       '"^''''°"   ^""^^ 

the  pauelJcorridl^ont  collLT^r  *'""^'' 
ing  almost  on  tip-toe  in  tw  «  ^xuldrnga,  walk- 
heels  from  clattering  l^tlfT  *"  '"'^''''  '^'" 
found  themXeTa  Z^  1''^''°°^  ^°°"-  They 
their  books  iLd  Don^d  dT^?T  ''°<^  «''P''<''^«d 
without  emoti^'in  n m  „'?;L  *  w  J''°^  ^^'^^ 
curious,  and  pe;veL,y  ^d  "''""'  *'"'"«"'  - 
When  his  cousin  went  out,  after  supper,  to  see  the 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


63 
town,  he  remained  in  his  room,  lil<e  one  of  those  im 
migrants  who  come  into  the  port  of  their  hoi  Tn 
f'gh  sp.„t8,  and,  having  looked  over  the  raSTthe 
trangeness  of  the  land,  retire  below  decks  an^  sk 

I    ."i;  'T^'  "*''"'*"°*  *»  eo  ashore.    All  the  pa 
which  he  had  put  behind  him  irrevocably    came  to 

nZ\-  ^^.^^^''e^  "om  in  which  he  sat  "dazing" 

nJ-    '..^""u"""  ^'"^  ^""'^  ^""Id  have  said-was 
ost  m  the  shadows  that  hung  around  his  lamp-  and 

ock   himSV"  ^'m"""  ■"  "'•■'^^  "«  '""J  -d  to 
lock   himself   from    IVIiss   Morris's   persecutions     thp 

«om  which  he  had  shared  with  his'imalinrr;  'pi  J 

mate,  the  room  m  which  he  had  read  his  ''Faerie 

,?l\°'C  IT  f !?''  ""^  ""'^  ^'"-  his  first  love  let 
"   which  he  had  defied  his  father,  in  which  he  had 

C  iMhat  h'  '"'";^  ""'*  *'-°"^^*  *°  lelvelis" 
b   Lis    ike  tr-    "  ""'  i'"'  ^""''"^  "^^  his  recol- 
lections like  the  pages  of  an  old  book,  slowly  ideal- 

U  LTf  f'\""**  """"PP^  experiences  and  see  ng 

And  that  mood  was  to  be  the  dominant  one  of  h^ 

bt  bTthe  H-  ""^'"     ^""^"^   -"^  ^eparatedto: 

old  ?hev  Z  "^"''1  ''  '•'^'y  "«  he  had  his 
om  They-the  prize  students  of  small  towns  the 
ambitious  sons  of  poor  farmers-had  comeTy"  tS 
pe"ni"o;'tr  ^*"'^  '°'  ^^-^  "professions'";  tt  eS 

yon^  1,?'  ^"^rr*"*'  '^'^  ""  Po^l^^t  '"oney  be- 
yond what  paid  their  board,  working  for  ''free 
scholarships"  with  the  same  untiring  labor  It  hal 


04 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


from  the  very  stones.     Shiny  at  the  elbows    elumfv 
m  the  feet,  they  had  as  little  wish  to  cuTLte  ™he 
Z     Lr  ::  '*  ^^  himself;  and,  like  hiZ  they 
came    from    their    board  ng-house    carretn    ♦«    ti.  • 
morning  lectures,  and  went' from  thTTa:  Ir^Z 
the  l.brary  and  from  the  library  back  to  theTia  " 
ooms  dihgently  all  day,  and  returned  at  last    bltk 
ng  through  the  twilight  and  loaded  down  wi  h  boS 
to  swallow  a  hasty  supper  and  begin  a  Ion Jevenin?,' 
rf  ^«»!  double  over  the  discarded  "parfor"  "Z 
that  stood  beside  their  boarding-house  beds. 

yLTT\  ",    "''"""'  ^°"""^  ^^^  '•'"'b«  of  the  more 
ubs  and  ffr  T  '•'"'  ""^  '°'  "*'«*-'  i 

caned  Tn  the    r^     rr*'"'-     H«  >•«<"""«  ^hat  was 
called,  in  the  student  slang,  "a  sport":  whereas  Don 
was   already  marked   as   one  of   the   "p7ur'^  Th 
Bports  had  a  sharp  contempt  for  these  lat  round 
shouldered    and    bilious    word-grubbers    who    work^ 

01    a   penal    institution-and    Conroy    began    to    hn 

''iZt  ttt  Tl  ^'^" ''-'  ""'*  - "« '-- 

-a^vrSTn  trr\::r -^?L^~ 

come  to  college  just  for  the  boo's.    4  oughtl  d 
something  to  keep  up  the-the  college  spiri"'-  '" 

He,  hmiself,  had  learned  to  smoke  a  "bulldoe" 
of  h-;  ]ir:  \T  "'^  --P--'^  on  t^e  tpe. 
"n  fhe  bnn  .  ^  u'°  ""=''  °*  """'^S"  ^bbon  sewed 
m  the  band  of  his  hat;  he  had  caught  the  tone  of 
almost   brutal   frankness  which  his  new  coLSons 


THE   DAY-DREAMER  65 

n™  ^  l'^"'  ''"''''i  "'**'°"^  ^"'^  «"«  """ther.  And 
i  wT/^5"""  ••"  ^°'^'  ««^  ""^w  the  dis- 
tance  that  had  widened  between  them,  and  could  not 
speak  across  it.  >  u  u  uui, 

"I  'm  not  plugging,"  he  tried  to  defend  himself. 
I  ra  reading  outside  of  my  course." 
"Rats!"  Conroy  retorted.     "That  's  what  they  al- 
ways say."  ' 

Don    rearranged    his    books    impatiently.      "That 
cant  about  the  collego  spirit  is  a  trifle  stale  itself." 

canting  "  ^""^  ^^""^  *  "^""^^  *"  ""^"^  ""e  of 

"Tdid*''""'^"'*  """"^  "^  °'  "^'"^  "  P'"8-" 
Don's  hand  trembled  as  he  turned  up  his  lamp. 
He  was  not  t.mid  m  a  quarrel,  but  he  was  afraid  of 
makmg  a  violent  end  of  this  friendship  that  was  al- 
ready  too  weak  to  bear  the  slightest  rupture.  He  did 
not  speak. 

Conroy  turned  his  back  on  the  table  and  stood 

mwnmg  disgustedly  at  the  shabby  discomfort  of  the 

room        We  should  have  gone  into  Residence,"  he 

said,     instead  of  coming  to  this  hole.  .  .      If  I  can 

get  a  room  there,  will  you  come?" 

"I  can't  afford  it.  Can't  you  get  one  of  the  other 
Doys  to  take  a  room  with  you?" 
"I  don't  know,"  Conroy  answered.  "I  might  " 
He  had,  in  fact,  already  talked  the  matter  'over 
with  a  sophomore  who  had  advised  him  to  join  "the 
Residence  gang"  if  he  wished  a  place  on  the  football 
team;  and  Don  guessed  as  much  from  the  tone  in 


66 


DON-A-DREAMS 


which  Conroy  had  said  "I  miKht."    When  hi,  cousin 

relief,  to  the  page  of  his  book. 
He  had  come  to  college  with  a  conception  of  the 

ZrZ  ?""  '^'""'  ""•""•^'  «"  "  ""y   '"  'he  Sal- 
bath  school,  acceptinK  as  literally  true  all  the  symbols 

of  his  religion.  And  the  first  lectures  in  biology  an.l 
Myology  had  come  on  him  like  Miss  Morris?^  fin, 
cmieisms  of  his  childish  fancies.  But  now,  instead 
of  an  infantile  resentment  of  change,  he  had  a  younw 
mn  s  eagerness  for  knowledge,  ke  did  not  pause  t 
examine  what  he  was  learning;  he  hurried  alon^, 
blindly,  with  a  pathetic  trust  in  the  guidance  of  hi 
eachers,  assu^d  that  he  was  rising  above  his  boyish 
.gnorance  of  Science  to  the  serene  heights  of  wisdom 
and  broad  views  of  life. 

In  the  absorption  of  such  a  progress,  all  his  cousin's 
noisy  claims  on  his  time  were  a  trivial  interruption 
He  received  calmly  the  news  that  Conroy  had  found 
a  room-mate  in  the  university  Residence.  And  he 
sat  down  alone  to  his  studies,  on  the  night  after  Con- 
roy  8  removal,  like  a  philosophic  anchorite  to  his 
meditations. 

He  had  had  two  startling  shocks  within  the  week- 
-one  in  a  biological  lecture  that  had  ended  a  Ion" 
series  of  proofs  of  the  kinship  of  man  with  the  ani! 
mals  by  discussing  the  intimate  physiological  relation 
between  man  and  the  anthropoid  apes;  and  the  other 
in  a  geological  lecture  in  which  the  professor,  havin" 

blalkh''"^*''!*,?"*!:  °*  "  """"'"°*''  ""d  dusted  the 
black-board  chalk  from  his  hands,  had  announced 


THE   DAY-DBEAMEB  67 

railing:  "We  come,  now,  to  the  fl™t  appearance,  «o 
far  m  we  know,  of  an  animal  that  by  reason  of  a 
superior  development  of  iu  brain,  was  destined  to 
ubjugate  all  the  other  members  of  the  animal  king- 
.  ,m-  he   anmial    whieh   we   know   as   Man."     And 

SSI  r"  ^""r  *'"'  P'"*""'"  "^  '•'"  °^»  ^finite 
ntteness  m  the  m.ghty  sohe.ne  of  a  universe  whieh 
ha.  existed  so  u.any  a^es  before  .he  first  appearance 
.if  that  prehistoric  animal,  the  first  Man,  and  which 
I  would  exist  when  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  modern 
world  were  fossil  remains  to  an  endless  future  of 
geologists. 

brave  Science  had  once  taught  confidently  that  the 
stars  were  set  in  crystal  spheres  revolving  tunefully 
about  the  earth,  that  it  had  prescribed  dissolved 
pearls  as  a  medicine,  and  believed  the  liver  to  be  the 
sea  of  love.  But  now  he  saw  only  that  his  teachers 
had  led  him  to  confront  a  terrible  query-a  query 
which  for  days  he  had  been  afraid  to  face.  If  it  were 
true  that  Man  was  only  an  animal  of  a  superior 
development  of  brain,  and  if  all  animals  died  the 
everlasting  death— f 

In  the  hope  of  finding  an  answer  to  that  query 
he  had  been  reading  hungrily  and  in  the  large.  Now 
he  was  gulping  the  conclusions  of  a  materialist  who 
had  just  said  the  last  word  on  Science  and  Immor- 

f    h  '  T..    %  ^^  ^^^  ^"^  ''™  *°  th«  Pl«in  edge 
of  the  depths  for  which  he  had  hoped  it  would  find 
him  a  bndge-and  had  left  him  standing  there 
When  he  looked  up  from  the  final  page  of  the  vol- 


DON-A-DREAMS 


Ho  mined  hi*  coiuin  from  the 


ume,  he  felt  lonely, 
room. 

He  row  from  hi.  chair  and  began  to  pace  up  ami 
down  w,th  a  frighlenetl  re^tlewneM.  He  halte.l 
.tanng  at  the  cheerful  glow  of  hi.  ".tudent"  Ian,,,' 

m!m  *?  '*'  '"  '"'""  "*'■'"'«''  ^''y-  «  tragically  .mnll 
nght  .n  the  vart  darkne«,  „f  the  night.  He  turned 
with  a  qu.ver,  .truck  e,.Ul  again  by  the  thought  that 
wa.  crouching,  l,ke  a  terror,  in  hi.  brain.  If  it  were 
true  that  death-  f 

Suddenly,  he  .miled-the  ghaatly  .mile  of  a  man 
trying  to  deride  hi.  fear.  It  wa.  impo«,ible  that  all 
this  immenM  activity  of  civilization-all  this  labor 
and  art  and  learning,  all  this  doing  and  .uffering,  all 

-wa.  the  chattering  business  of  a  world  of  untailed 
ape..    God  would  not— 

Hi.  .mile  set  on  his  mouth  in  a  fixed  grimace  in 
which  there  was  no  mirth.  His  eyes  .lowly  narrowed 
aiid  .hut  a.  if  he  had  been  stricken  with  a  pain  in 
the  temples.  lie  jerked  back  his  head,  and  threw  hi, 
hands  up  to  hi.  face. 

When  the  stroke  had  pa.ssed,  he  was  on  hi.  knees 
Desiue  his  bed,  praying-praying  with  the  fervor  of 
a  condemned  man  who  has  suddenly  realized  the 
whole  meaning  of  the  sentence  of  death,  praying  with 
the  increasing  feverishnes.  of  doubt,  praying  against 
the  thought  that  hi.  prayer,  were  addressed  to  the 
deaf  heaven  of  Science  that  is  hung  with  barren  .ta« 
and  he  cold  night  of  endless  emptiness.  He  stopped 
and  looked  up,  his  jaw  fallen,  as  if  listening  to  the 


THE   DAY-DREAMER  69 

echo  of  hi.  own  whi.per  on  the  dead  .ik-nc™,  hi.  oyc« 
fixed  m  .  fr.Khtened  despair-for  it  ^eemo.    to  hT 

h.Th^„  ."."""'^  ""*'""'  ^'™  "'  »■"'  '-'",  t.  .r  ho' 
had  been  'oelieviag  in  another  Santa  Claua. 


II 

These  are  the  commonplaces  of  youn^  cxpcr.-n..  4,.. 
growing  paina  of  any  spiritual  develop,,,  nt  but 
hey  eame  on  Don  with  a  sudden  violence  th,;t  .-  , 
thorn  a  staggering  weight.    He  was  away  from  homu: 

Wk  on  1^'  V  Z'"  "'"'^  *~'"  *•■«  comfortable  out- 
look on  hfe  which  a  man  gets  from  the  very  per- 

ZTf  .-^""""r  """"""dings,  he  was  fae^gThe 
powe™  of  l,fe  and  death,  alone  and  in  the  open,  he 
was  the  more  conscious  of  his  own  weakness,  mor„ 
exposed  to  the  assault  of  doubt,  and  perhap^ 
more  mclined  to  be  contemptuous  of  the  fiSe 
iSfT  ."'  •"?'  '""  '^''^  '"  t""-  «heltere7be! 
illZ'^  *";  '"v"  ""y'  ^*"''"'"«  »"d  sentimental; 
h  had  been,  for  the  past  few  months,  thrown  upon 
his  own  unmothered  masculinity  in  a  world  that  dt 
»p.sed  the  gentle  moralities  which  it  preached  on  ont 

he  h„H  "C''  ""'^  ""'  "''"''  •'^'^  '='>''"««d  ""ore  than 
ne  had  been  aware. 

When  he  woke  next  morning,  it  was  to  a  dull  ao- 
ceptance  of  that  loss  which  had  come  upon  him  the 
previous  n.ght,  in  such  a  frantic  revolt  a";inst 
bereavement.    He  looked  out  his  window  on  the  S 


70 


DON-A-DREAMS 


soft  fall  of  snow,  and  remembered  that  it  was  Satur- 
day. His  studies  lay  around  him,  dead  of  interest, 
hke  the  ruins  of  an  avocation.  He  went  downstairs 
listlessly,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  ate  his  break- 
fast with  the  mechanical  appetite  which  follows  a 
stress  of  emotion.  And  then  he  muffled  himself  up 
in  his  overcoat  and  winter  gloves,  and  with  his  head 
bent  against  a  miid  wind  he  began  to  walk. 

He  had  intended  to  walk  in  a  comfortable  daze 
quite  thoughtless,  with  the  snow-flakes  clogging  his 
eyelashes  and  the  wind  crooning  in  his  ears.    But  his 
mind  was  unusually  alert,  his  observation  greedy  of 
every  sight  he  passed;  and  when  he  came  to  the  main 
busmess  street  of  the  town-turning  northward  in  an 
unconscious  habit  of  direction-he  saw  the  life  around 
him  with  an  involuntary  wonderment,  as  if  it  were 
suddenly  new  to  him;  and  he  watchec:  Ue  actions  of 
the  men  and  women  on  the  sidewalks  and  in  the  shops 
as  if  they  had  been  a  race  of  animals  whose  cheerful 
acceptance  of  a  brief  and  tragic  lot  was  an  inexplic- 
able  mystery  to  him.    He  saw  them  even  with  pity  as 
they  smiled  and  nodded  and  chattered  to  one  another 
-with  the  pity  which  one  would  feel  for  the  play- 
fulness of  a  butcher's  animals;  and  he  did  not  at  all 
confound  himself  in  their  fate,  but  walked  among 
them  as  unconsciously  self-superior  as  a  philosopher 
who  has  just  proved  the  nothingness  of  all  things  and 
who  feels  the  personal  importance  of  his  triumphant 
intellectuality  and  the  great  distinction  of  his  act 

The  feeling  raised  him  to  a  lonely  isolation,  and  as 
he  neared  the  quieter  suburbs  he  was  reminded  of 


THE   DAY-DREAMER  71 

the  streets  of  Coulton  and  of  the  companion  who  had 
used  to  jom  him  at  the  top  of  the  Park.     Nor  was 
rt  so  much  of  a  reminding-for,  of  course,  she  had 
been  dwelhng  m  the  painful  background  of  his  mind 
at  all  times.     It  was  a  sudden  leaping  of  her  image 
into  the  vacant  interest  which  his  studies  had  been 
occupying,  a  weaker  yielding  to  the  thoughts  which 
he  had  kept  resolutely  out  of  his  busy  days.     And 
he  did  not  think  of  her  with  pity,  as  he  did  of  these 
others.    The  mood  is  likely  to  be  over-expressed  in  any 
words:  but  she  took  her  place  beside  his  own  concep- 
tion of  himself  and  companioned  him  among  these  sha- 
dows of  men  and  women  like  an  immortal  walking 
with  him  m  a  futile  and  passing  world. 

He  began  to  chat  with  her,  in  an  imaginary  con- 
versation,  at  first  rather  sadly,  but  without  any  refer- 
ence to  the  cause  of  his  tngic  manner,  for  he  had 
the  same  instinct  to  shield  her  from  his  doubts  as  he 
had  had  to  protect  Frankie  from  the  discovery  that 
Santa  Claus  was  a  myth.     She  asked  him  about  his 
studies,  about  Conroy,  about  the  life  at  college;  and 
her  questions  were  as  unexpected  as  the  conversation 
which  one  carries  on  in  dreams.     He  saw  her  down- 
ward smile,  the  eyelash  on  her  cheek,  the  quick  side 
plance  which  she  raised  to  him,  rather  shyly  because 
..  their  long  separation;  and  he  looked  down  to  sec 
whether  she  wore  her  rubbers  in  the  snow,  and,  while 
he  replied  to  her,  he  watched  her  little  feet  appearing 
and  disappearing  below  the  hem  of  her  skirt.     The 
pleasure  which  he  took  out  of  it  all  was  a  thing  not 
to  be  described.     On  top  of  his  lonely  misery,  it  was 


72 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


more  real  than  any  real  joy  could  possibly  have  b™n 
idell   '*  '"'*  °"*"''^  "*  ""  *"*"'°^  actuality,  purely' 
He  turned  with  her  into  an  open  road  that  led  up 
the  side  of  a  hill;  and  they  stopped  at  the  top  of  it 
to   ook  back  at  the  town,  where  it  lay  in  the  cup  of  a 
valley,   facmg  the  lake.     He  explained  to  her  that 
accordmg  to  the  geologists,  this  range  of  hills  had 
been    the    shore-hne    m    the    "glacial    period";    sh,. 
wished  that  she  had  studied   geology;   he  shook  his 
head  sadly      In  order  the  better  to  see,  they  climb.d 
the  bank  that  edged  the  road,  and  stood  together  u„ 
der  a  huge  bare  elm  that  raised  above  them  its  inter- 
weaved    branches,    fantastically    touched    with    snow 
He  brushed  oflf  a  great  root  that  writhed  up  from 

Z'l^Z^r'"''-  ^"'  ''''  "*  ''^''  °^  ^*  ^  '-^ 

He  was  still  sitting  there  when  the  sun  came  out, 
and  he  was  sm.lmg,  with  a  rapt  expression,  at  th 
honzon.     She  had  her  hands  in  a  fur  muff  on  he 
knees,  and  her  cheeks  were  rosy  with  the  wind.    With' 
ou  tturnmg,  he  saw  her  so;  and  he  listened  to  her 
with  the  face  of  a  lover.     Below  him  were  all  the 
houses  of  the  town,  and  they  had  suddenly  become  th 
nests  wh,ch  love  had  built  for  its  shelter.     ITl    h 
,  business  of  those  streets-which  had  an  hour  befor 
seemed  so  inexplicable  to  him-was  now  the  S 

Sv  LlT.r'"  ""•^  "°"''"^  *"  ^""«  home 't' 
sm  of  that  eity  were  the  absence,  the  debasing  the 
denial  of  love.    Geology,  history-all  the  parcrd  and 


THE   DAY-DREAMER  73 

sterile  sciences  of  the  lecture  room-were  a  study  of 
the  dry  bones  and  fossils  of  a  life  from  which  love 
had  departed.  Beauty  was  the  face  of  Love-  Truth 
was  the  voice  of  Love.  God  Himself-and  it  eame 
to  him  as  a  hope  which  he  seized  upon  as  a  discovery 
-was  the  divine  principle  of  Love  which  gave  a 
meaning  to  the  universe. 

"Aren't  your  hands  cold?"     she  asked. 

"Not  very." 

"Put  one  in  here,"  she  said,  and  moved  her  muff 
across  her  knees  to  him. 

He  touched  her  gloved  fingers  in  that  warm  nest 
of  fur.    She  smiled.    The  sunlight  swam  with  a  sud 
den  glory  of  light  m  the  moist  happiness  that  clouded 
his    eyes.      And    Don-a-Dreams    had    found    himself 
again  in  the  love  dream  of  youth  and  the  poets. 

She    had    com<^-Iike   the   imaginary   playmate   who 
had  consoled  him  for  the  loss  of  his  picnic  on  the 
-4th  of  May-to  companion  him  in  a  world  that  had 
grown  to  be  a  place  of  doubt  and  terror  to  him;  and 
she  kept  him  from  the  thought  of  a  darkness  ;hich 
he  dared  not  think  of.    But  he  did  not  allow  her  to 
make  any  change  in  the  outward  manner  of  his  days 
As  If  he  had  been  a  criminal  or  a  conspirator  with 
some  secret  double  life  to  conceal,  he  even  frequented 
more  than  usual  any  crowded  assemblies  of  the  stu- 
dents, and  watchfully  applauded  at  the  meetings  of 
the  debating  society,  and  cheered  the  assaults  at  arms 
m  the  gymnasium,  and  listened  with  a  diligent  pre- 
tence of  absorption  in  the  lecture  rooms.     Not  that 


74 


DON-A-DREAMS 


he  did  any  of  these  things  consciously,  or  by  nlan- 
t  was  ,„st,netivo  with  him  to  concea/tke  though  "f 
h  s  presence  that  hung  around  him  like  a  ghost,  an, 

the  mstmct  made  him  show  an  open  interest  in  S 

ft  tn!  "'^rT'^'^r'  "*  *•■«  ^""^  t™^  that  it  mad 
It  unpossiblc  for  him  to  come  to  terms  of  intimacy 
w  th  a„y  f„e„ds.     He  spent  an  occasional  eve"in^ 
uZ  H     r,  "^    ^"   ™'""    «*    B-'dence,    and    h^ 

f  Conrotr  '•  '"/ "?  "  ™"'''  *"  '""^  -n-rsation 
of  Conroys  new  friends;  and  he  was  as  nearly  as 
possible  unnoticed  by  them  there.     He  partTcuL  v 
absented  himself  from  the  college  "socials"  to  wh[ 
young  women   participated,   he  studied   less   in   th 
hb  ary,  and  took  fewer  books  to  his  room  at  niglt 

Toi  J  .  T;  ^'  T""^  '^''''"^  °"*  '°'  «"  hour  before 
an ,  hi^     ;  ""''  """  "^"""""y  ^P^-t  his  Saturday 
and  h.s  Sundays  on  the  country  roads  or  in  that  ne^ 
work  of  ravmes  and  river  bottoms  which  holds  back 
the  northeastern  suburbs  of  the  city 

ber'*nTght"that  r  *'*"'  "'"'*  '''''''-'  '''^'^  »«««»>■ 
bcr  mght-that  Conroy,  on  his  way  home  from  the 

theater  saw  Don  ahead  of  him  sauntering  up  the  1  no 

of  dark  shop  windows  towards  his  boarding-hous  - 

sletr  ^"°  ^'*  ""  °^«-^«S«^  hail  of  greeting. 
t  tr^Tu  ^P""*'"".  Conroy  had  had  a  guilty  fee^ 
ing  that  he  had  deserted  an  old  friend  tr^asonaby; 
as  S  le  Jn'"'  *''V"«''^<'»t'  -  «  l-^tter  to  his  mother 
tha'  a  ^^.Z  '  """"''^  *"  P=^  '"'  «"y*hing  better 
than  a     beastly  uncomfortable"  boarding-house  room 

had  tactfully  persuaded  Don  to  accept  an  extra  al- 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


75 

navThlT  'r  °l  *'  '"'^  '=°"'''"°°  *'-'"  he  should 
pay  It  back  when  he  was  able.  Conroy  was  curious 
o  know  what  his  cousin  was  doing  with  his  money!- 
tor  he  was  obviously  not  spending  it 

i-Sn  h-'"'*,'*''!*"'  "*  ^^  •"'"''°'«  '^"^'y  «l>out,  and 
jerked  h.s  hand  out  of  the  bosom  of  his  coat,  and  let 
h.s  a™  that  had  been  crooked-swin,  ostentatiously 
at  h,s  s,de.  He  met  Conroy  with  a  curious  expression 
wh,ch  puzzled  the  boy.  "What  're  you  doing  down 
here,  anyway,  Don?"    he  asked. 

"Taking  a  walk.     What  're  you?" 

Conroy  replied  that  he  had  been  at  the  theater,  but 
he  ended  the  explanation  with  a  return  to  his  curi- 
os.ty  regarding  Don.     "Working  pretty  hard?" 

ever^  '"'''      ^"^  '''"^'''^-     "^'"egi^g  as  hard  as 

That  reference  to  the  unmontioned  cause  of  their 
separation  silenced  Conroy.  They  walked  along  with- 
out a  word,  crunching  the  snow  under  their  hods. 
Suddenly  Conroy  asked:  "Do  you  ever  hear  from  her, 

Don  turned,  with  a  startled  "Who?" 

"Margaret— Miss  Richardson." 

"What  made  you  ask  iliatV 

There  was  again,  in  his  face,  that  faint  suggestion 
ot  guilty  confusion  which  Conroy  had  noticed  when 
they  met.  "I  don't  know,"  the  cou.sin  answered 
embarrassed.  "I  'd  seen  so  little  of  you  lately  I 
hought  that,  perhaps-Jessie  wrote  mc  the  other  day 
that  she  d  heard  she  was  coming  here,  after  Christ- 
mas,  to  study  music  at  the  Conservatory." 


76 


DON-A-DKEAMS 


"WhoJ" 

"Miss  Biehardson." 
"Coming  here?" 
"Yes.     To  the  Conservatory." 
After  an  interval  of  thought,  Don  said:    "Oh!    I 
hail  n't  heard." 

hnl'T  **y  «''P''"-'d  at  a  Btreet  comer,  Don  thrust 
both  hands  deep  in  his  overcoat  pockets  and  paced 
along  alone  m  a  slow  absorption  of  thought" and 
when  he  came  to  the  door  of  the  boarding-hou^,  he 

on  thr^esLl"''-^  -'  ^"•'"^  ~  '-  -i^- 
She  was  coming  back.  His  "imaginary  playmate- 
was  "com,ng  true"  again.  The  news  had  bCght 
h.m  down  to  real  life  with  the  bewildering  shock  of 
a  sudden  awakening. 


Ill 

There  intervened  his  Christmas  holiday  at  home-, 
momentous  holiday;  for  after  the  first  Lh  of^reet- 

his  ;ii!'        /  '"'"''^"  ^'"'"'■"^  ^^*<»-«  Prankie  and 
h,    SIS  er  and  even  his  mother  h.rself,  a  stranger  in 

able  r  r  T"''  't  ""^  ^•"""^  ^'^«>-'  ""d  ^^e  Lvit- 
able  readjustment  began  at  once  almost  with  pain. 

tho,    M    '  '  ^''r'^"'  had  clung  most  closely  to  his 
thoughts  from  the  day  he  had  opened  his  trunk-and 

papers  tied  with  ribbons-to  the  day  he  had  received 


THE   DAY-DREAMER  77 

,tVi,"'h''T^-  °'  ^''"''*"""  ^^'''««  ^"h  «  request 
that  he  buy  this  for  Prank  and  that  for  Mary  and 

ifZ  T:  ' «"  'f  '■"-'"''ranees  for  his  cousins 

news  and  comn.ent-th.  letters  of  a  woman  who 
M  on  hfe  from  the  windows  of  her  siek  room 
w  th  a  spectator's  interest  and  sympathy  He  had 
e  t  her  watching  him  in  all  his  abs^e'e.  L  had  st' 
AnVr^^'"'"  ^"  "^^''J'^^o'-k,  thinking  of  him. 
affiion  """"  *°  ^""'  °°*'  "''^  "  ^'^"^  *""  °f 

in.°an  J  M°  V  "^'  '^°^°  "PP"''**-  *'«'•  «'«'*••'  ««"  ««>«- 
Dg  and  blushmg  awkwardly  from  the  caress  of  wel- 

0  me,   he   found  himself  facing  the   loving  scrutTny 

0    her  gaze;  and  he  looked  away  quickly,  conscious 

ife    his  h-T  "'..'"'"'''"'  "'^  '«''^^«'  ^'«  °''t'-k  on 
life,  h  s  hidden  thoughts  and  the  growth  of  experi- 

irthaVt"'  ^'m'""^  '"'*  ""  P"^-  I*  ~d  ti> 
e^s  f  h  ""'"''*  P*""*'"^''  *•>«  ''''''  b«'""d  his 
Znt  /  ""^  ',°*°  *""'"  ''''^"^'y-  A»<1  this  very 
attempt  of  concealment  betrayed  him  to  her.  With 
a  mother  s  quick  suspicion,  she  began  to  seek  him  out, 
w.th  those  apparently  trivial  questions  which  are  like 
he  tapping,  „,  ,  tiny  hammer  on  the  suspected  pan- 
els  of  a  wainscoating. 

They  found  him  by'the  silences  with  which  he  tried 
"cover  his  boy's  secrets.  It  took  her  days  to  do  Tt 
but  m  the  long  talks  which  they  had  together  in  he; 
room-sitting  with  the  winter  sunlight  on  the  lace 
eur tarns  and  her  needle  busy  in  the  embroidery  w  th 
which   she   occupied   her   wasted   hands-she   probed 


78 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


h.m  unerringly  because  of  the  very  acutenew  of  her 
ympathy  and  the  anxiety  of  her  love.  Concerning 
the  girl-whoever  it  might  be-she  had  no  fear 
She  trusted  the  innocence  of  his  youth.  But  it  was 
th.8  very  innoccn..  that  she  feared  in  the  matter  of 
his  rehgion,  and  when  to  a  pointed  question  of  his 
belief,  he  rephed  .'  ...rately:  "I 'd-I 'd  rather  no 
discuss  ,t  •' the  t!„  ^,t  of  her  boy  tempted  and  mi^r' 
able  kept  her  av ,  ke  all  night. 

She  felt  that  he  needed  a  father's  guidance  II,. 
was  almost  a  man,  now,  and  it  must  be  that  a  man 
would  understand  him.  When  he  stood  before  her 
tall  and  qmet-as  if  thoughtful  with  his  e:sperieneo 
of  that  outer  world  from  which  he  came  into  her  four- 
walled  prison  of  sickness-she  was  so  conscious  of  his 
new  m«„,„ess  that  she  looked  up  to  him  almost  as 
Je  ookod  up  to  her  husband.  They  were  of  the  same 
world^and^the  same  se.     Perhaps  the  father  could 

hornlST'''J"'^'  '^'"'^^*  °^  ^""'^  «  P'«°  showed 
k^w  h  t  t  '^^'''""^  *»»«  «"«°t  lawyer.  But  she 
tw  J  !    ,'  "^"^  '"'°'*''°*  '°  ••'"  attendance  at  church, 

W  t'  r^  7  *''*  "°"^"°'»  «*  *•>«  '""'■"'"^g  service 
that  he  had  been  employed  in  legal  matters  by  the 
bishop,  that  he  was  a  trustee  of  the  new  hospital 
which  had  just  been  built  by  the  Anglicans  of  the 
town.  He  never  spoke  of  religion  to  her,  but  he  never 
spoke  of  poht.cs  either,  or  indeed  of  any  of  the  inter 
ests  that  kept  him  busy  all  day. 

She  put  the  case  to  him  in  timid  hints  and  queries: 
Had  Don  acted  strangely  in  church  f    Had  he  spoken 


THE   DAy-DBEAMEE  79 

ligious.    Oh  Don  h!d  n  ^    T^  *°  """"'  ^y^  i"«- 

afraid  that  the^  was  rr    '"'^*''"^'  •">'  ""^  -«"> 

M  abie-wouir  j;errDl7'"«-    '^^  ''^'^  ^ 
He  would.    And  he  did 

wish  to  makZL  rivin  T""""  ^^'"^  '^'^  ^id  not 

-.  bewirdXtrwith^tesSxr:--^^^^^^^^ 

smuating   friendliness  and   «   Z?    '  ^  '°  '"■ 

their  involved  reS  H.  "  *'"""'"*'  ''"'"""°  *° 
Don  on  his  attest  af  ^T  ^1^^^  "^ 
had  gone  because  he  knew  th«^7n      ^  ^  *^^  ^^ 

•'-  Cib'odv  a!  „.      "''  r  ""  •"•^'«'i^««''n  within 

-  theiLs^ot^irorbrfr'"'^"^  ^-^  ^-'-'^ 

l..n..ve  in.''  '     **"'■'  *"•«  tJ-ines  one  can't 

of 'v'I?"/C;'«  *''*^«'  --t«d,  with  no  change 
"0.  b  eve  in  b^tT/"T?°*  P"""^«  *"*  ^  d^ 
'he  will  o     h;  Laioritv   "a    *'""'""  ^'^^•'•'  "'^'''-t 

--a,  punish   -r-he^nrrCk^^Jth^ 


80 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


Church  membership,  for 


jails  to  release  murderers, 
a  lawyer  particularly—" 

He  stopped  to  raise  his  hat  to  a  fellow  church-mem- 
ber  and  his  wife;  and  Don,  looking  down  at  the  pow- 
n  T^^hieh  he  threw  up  with  an  impatient 
shuffle  of  the  foot,  put  in  quickly:  -I  don't  think 
1  m— law  doesn't  appeal  to  me." 
^^llis  father  asked  mildly:  "What  do  you  intend  to 

"I  don't  know.    I  thoncht— " 
"Y.'sf" 

"I  thought  that  the  university  education  alone-" 

Along  what  lines  f" 
"I— I  hadn't  decided." 

They  were  at  their  gate.  Mr.  Gregg  paused  with 
h.8  hand  on  it  and  gave  Don  a  stern  face  and  a  sudden 
change  of  tone.  "If  you  are  not  going  to  study  law. 
you  must  decide  what  you  are  going  to  study.  We 
will  talk  this  over  to-night." 

Don  followed  him  up  the  path  like  a  boy  led  U, 
chaslisement.    And  as  long  as  his  father  was  visibly 
before   him-tall    and    grave    and    authoritative-the 
sons  young  habit  of  respect  and  obedience  kept  his 
thought  cowed.     But  as  soon  as  the  mid-day  dinner 
had  ended  and  Don  had  shut  himself  in  his  room 
shame  and  resentment   rose  in  him   in  a  dangerous 
revolt.    He  had  been  t.icked;  that  sudden  change  from 
suavrty  to  sternness  had  been  the  springing  of  the 
trap;   the  man  had  played  on  him  with  hypocrisy 
And  for  the  instant  Don  despised  him. 
More  than  that:  in  his  absence  at  college,  Don  had 


THE   DAY-DBBAMEB  g, 

come  to  see  his  father  as  he  saw  n.t, 
a  superior  creature  to  be  l«,ked  11        T"'  ""*  "« 
.«  a  human  animal-like  hi      ^       '""'  "'''''•  ''"' 
.n.l  meehanical-thot^ih  11,""'^  "'''  "'"'  '""•^ 

cleverly  us  me  his  h^ofn  .  """  marriajfe— 

i'.v,  an'd  P.tl'rea^'';  :  JX  'l  "'^  "'"'  ^'""■ 
i-'rave.  He  saw  him  if  ni  "''^•""•"y  of  his 
l^ast  with  pky  and  ;en         "'*''  '"■"'"'  ""'^'«'""'.  at 

live.1  without  viee?  And  i  h  "'•"*  '"  '"^  ""''  '^ho 
"■an  this,  it  wa,  b:caut"  h  'f  LT  „>•  '"""  '»  ^™ 
stern  ideal  of  British  n«Lr.T  C^l'"^  "f  *"  that 
l-fought  to  Canada    h«  .  """'''   "■«   '•«««'   has 

b^ioved  by  h  s  st;  bu    "7"  '""^  *"  """'^  himself 
It  is  doubtful  whethe    S  "T''*^''  ""'^  '""■^-J- 
'»  that  night's  inlr *t.  w^nt'i  h  T'  '~'''™ 
the  man  he  was  to  f.™     r  ?    7    '  ""^  ""^"Peet  for 
to  obey  him.     Their  short  r."^^'  '"'  "'''  ""^  '"*«" 
fn.m  church  had  ^een  to    r^'^^''"  *'"'  ^"^  ^ome 
i-R  glimpse  into  his  father  ,     "^  1  ^''"''  """  '"'^'^'"'■ 
^trueted  a  whole  We  ofl,>L^'  """^  '"'  •"«>  o""- 
WyerWonfession2f:th'l;L'"''Tr  '"""  ^l^" 
of  church  m-mbership      He  did  n?    "^  "''""''^^ 
father  had  been  throLh  .    »        ,*  ""P""*  t''"*  his 

j-bts  which  ;mit;  h  mS  r  r:r' 

-  ~wi.:\iroryS:iiri;:^[ 


MICIOCOPY   KESOLUTION   TBI  CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


^  -APPLIED  IM/IGE    Inc 

^r-  '653  East   Main   Street 

S'.a  Rochester.   New   York         1*609       U5A 

■*—  (7'6)   *82  -  0300  -  Phor^e 

^B  {?'6)   288  -  5989  -  Fg< 


82 


DON-A-DRKAMS 


sympathy  for  this  beginner  in  life  with  all  the  proh- 
lems  of  his  world  thir^k  about  him.  Don  saw  his 
father,  merely,  as  a  lawyi'''  whose  practice  in  tli. 
eourts  had  dulled  his  sense  of  truth  and  justice  ami 
the  ideals  behind  the  statutes  and  had  left  him  only 
the  lesson  of  conformity  which  is  so  often  the  essenc.' 
of  the  law  to  the  priest  and  the  practitioner. 

It  Kave  the  boy  new  cause  to  hate  the  profession, 
llis  mind,  at  college,  had  turned  from  the  thought 
of  it  with  distaste,  and  rose  against  it— niw  that"  it 
was  to  be  forced  on  him-with  an  almost  desperate 
repulsion.  His  aunt's  allowance,  added  to  the  money 
which  he  had  saved  from  his  small  expenses  at  collef;o, 
would  put  him  through  whatever  "course"  he 
chose  to  take.  He  would  not  quarrel  with  his  father, 
but  he  would  not  submit  to  him. 

He  entered  the  "study"  with  a  volume  which  ho 
pretended  he  had  come  to  return  to  its  shelf.  Ih 
found  his  father  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  smok- 
ing a  curved  pipe.  A  gas  lamp,  with  a  frosted  shad.-, 
lit  a  precise  arrangement  of  books  and  papers  on  tlic 
table.  Don  walked  past  them  almost  defiantly,  am! 
turned  his  back  from  the  bookcase. 

Mr.  Gregg  said  abruptly:  "I  judge  from  your  col- 
lege   'Calender'   that   your   Political    Science    eours. 
does  not  really  begin  until  your  second  year.     Is  fli^il 
correct?" 
Don  answered,  without  turning:  "Yes,  sir." 
Mr.   Gregg   cleared  his   throat.     "You'  have   until 
then  to  make  up  your  mind  what  you  are  going  to  do." 
Don  waited,  shutting  the  gla.ss  doors  of  the  bonk- 


THE   DAY-DREAMER  83 

ei.se  slowly.  When  he  turned  around,  his  father  had 
sat  down  in  his  easy  ehair  and  taken  up  his  book. 
Don  understood  that  judgment  had  been  rendered 
and  started  awkwardly  toward  the  door.  It  seemed 
a  !,'reat  distance  across  the  room.  He  had  his  hand 
"11  the  door-knob  when  his  father  added:  "Meanwhile 
l"r  your  mother's  sake  if  not  for  your  own,  you  will 
i-'o  to  church  and  try  to  behave  yourself." 

Don  got  himself  out,  in  silence,  with  his  cars  burn- 
ing As  he  elo.sed  the  door  behind  him,  he  heard  his 
lather  strike  a  match. 

Crestfallen,  dismissed  with  all   his  heroic   insubor- 
dination unnoticed,  he  went  upstairs  ashamed  of  him- 
s,.lf,  and-in  spite  of  himself-adn.iring  the  strength 
Hat  had  taken  him  up,  considered  him  briefly,  given 
him  8  curt  decision,  and  then  turned  to  other  mat- 
ters with  the  calm  re-lighting  of  a  pipe.  For  a  moment, 
he  doubted  whether  this  old  brain  might  not   know 
what  was  best  for  him  to  do;  whether  he  would  not 
be  wise  to  study  law  and  be  at  peace  with  his  father 
But  It  was  only  for  a  moment.     Law  was  to  him  a 
dead  and  dried  collection  of  classified  statutes,  printed 
m  old  books,  in  a  formal  jargon  as  repellent  as  the 
scientific  names  on  a  museum  of  beetles.     Life  as  a 
awyer  would  be  life  in  a  musty  library  with  a  con- 
tinual  droning   of  court   arguments   coming  to   him 
hrough  green  baize  doors,  and  all  the  sunlight  an.l 
Ireedom  of  love  and  happiness  beating  on  the  closed 
«mdows  that  shut  him  in.    He  shook  his  head,  draw- 
'"g  a  long  breath  of  relief.     He  was  free.     He  had 
tive  months  in   which  to  choose  a  career.     All   the 


84 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


world  was  before  him,  like  a  garden  full  of  inviting 
paths;  and  somewhere  in  the  center  of  it,  in  a  secret 
green  recess,  she  sat  waiting,  with  a  buneh  of  violets 
gathered  for  him  in  her  hand,  and  a  girlish  smile  of 
welcome  trembling  in  a  sort  of  timorous  expectation 
on  her  lips. 

That  thought  filled  his  last  week  at  home  with    « 
restless  impatience.     It  was  as   'f  he  were  about   to 
start  on  a  tour  of  the  world,  ai  .  had  a  week  to  wait 
for  his  date  of  sailing.    He  chafed  under  the  enforced 
inaction  of  the  long  sittings  with  his  mother,  lookin;; 
wistfully  out  of  the   window,   until   she   silently  re- 
proved herself  for  keeping  him  too  much  indoors  and 
unselfishly  let  him  go.     (He  had  said  nothing  of  his 
interview  with  his  father,  but  she  did  not  resent  his 
reticence.    Her  husband  had  accustomed  her  to  silence, 
and,  like  the  deaf,  she  read  faces,  without  words.)' 
She  let  him  go,  and  he  tramped  the  streets  of  Coulton 
in  the  footprints  of  his  past,  marvelling  to  see  how 
the  life  of  the  little  town  stood  rooted,  like  a  villafjc 
seen  from  the  window  of  a  railroad  car  as  the  years 
whirled  him  along.    The  Park  was  incredibly  small- 
the  park  in  which  he  and  Conroy  had  roamed  as  it 
it  had  been  a  prairie.    His  ravine,  leafless  and  frozen, 
was  bare  and  mean,  with  a  little  gurgle  of  water  un- 
der thin  ice.     His  aunt  bored  him.     His  cousins  sat 
and  looked  at  him,  unable  to  reach  his  interest,  or 
teased  and  fought  around  him  as  if  he  were  not  in 
the  room.    He  came  back  to  his  home  like  a  reluctant 
visitor,  feeling  the  presence  of  the  taciturn  head  of 
♦he  house  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  maples  that  stood 


THE   DAY-DREAMER  gr, 

^^"s,:':  iz;\:tiT:r^^  '-'"* """-  -'"> 

to  heel.  ^  *  *  ''"S  suddenly  brought 

hif  liJ^'f  'f   ^"^   "P^^'^S  •'«f°re  him.   inviting 
h.m  like  an  adventurous  and   breezy  road-   and  ^! 

rod  might   lead  him,   it  should   bring  him   back  t„ 
Coulton-exeept  as  a  hasty  visitor-never  again 


IV 

fundl^'n,*"  ■?''  '^?""*'''  "''''•*y'  ""  the  following 
Sunday    morning,     m    his    boarding-house     room-f 

ITan^:  ri'  "  "  ^.''»'-'-«''-  with  its  siting 
root  and  its  dormer  window  the  sash  of  which  hun^ 
loosely  on  hinges,  allowed  a  powdered  snow  to  "fft 

2v  fre  H         '°,'T'"''"*  '''*'''•*  t°  tW«  haven  of 

link    17^  T"  ''  ""  '''"'^"  "^'-P'  *-  ti-d 

to  think,  with  a  happy  assurance  that  the  next  dav 

would  rise  on  his  new  life.  ^ 

It  had  risen.    The  sun  was  bright  on  window-panes 

at  were  white  with  a  hoar  frost  as  thick  as  a  lichen 

H.S  trunk,  st,  I  unstrapped,  stood  in  a  corner.    S 

•  Zt     .°°  •'^^  i""''^'  ''^  """"^^  °»  the  shelves  of  the 
what-not"  which  served  him  as  a  bookcase.     It  wa 

the  nettr-ron.'^  '^^  "^"  '"  ''  °"*  ^  ''^^  *"  - 
He  jumped  from  his  bed,  and  the  cold  closed  on 


86 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


l'll\    T'''"?  =^  ""  '"y  bath.     It  wa.  nine 

nr«i   ,    K  '""^  laughably.     The  water  from  hi 

craekcd  basm  stung  on  his  hands  and  face  He 
sM  at  the  ghostly  reflection  of  hi„,self  in  he  mi 
ror  tnat  was  as  dull  as  a  sheet  of  tin;  and  he  laugh  1 
too  oft  ^''"\^*'"'!  hj'  ""'"h,  lying  on  the  marbl. 
top  of  h,s  washstand,  had  been  stopped  over  night  by 
the  penetratms  eold  of  the  stone.  He  went  dow, - 
sta,rs  on  fp-toe,  in  the  silenee  of  a  house  asleep,  Ju, 
on  h,s  overcoat  and  fur  cap  like  a  thief,  and  opeLl 

h  t  Z  Z  ""  V"'''-^  '-«'  "f  new.fallenU 
that  lay.  untracked-an  unbroken  wonder,  a  white 
spell  of  silence-over  the  empty  street.  He  stoTd  a 
moment,  on  the  edge  of  it,  almost  reluctant  to  break 
the  charm.     Then  he  drew  his  cap  down  to  his  ears 

down  the  "  rr"  ''°"*  "'  "'^h  «P'"t«  he  ran 
down  the  porch  steps  and  waded  in 

colors  on  the  lashes  of  his  half-elosed  eyes.  The  snow 
sdenced  his  footsteps.  There  was  not  even  a  t  r  o" 
wind  to  make  life  around  him.  He  walked  in  an 
enchanted  world,  through  the  stillness  of  a  Sundav 
mornmg,  h,s  thought  singing  eestaticaUy,  in  a  croon 
of  pleasure,  like  a  child  at  play. 

He  went  without  design,  without  direction.  But 
unconsciously  he  turned  into  the  way  that  led  to  eol- 
^■ge,  and  he  strode  along,  swinging  his  arms,  his  head 
down  against  the  sun,  glancing  at  the  houses  which 
he  passed,  and  smiling-with  all  the  contempt  of  his 
frost-bitten  and  tmgling  alertness-at  thought  of  the 


THE   DAY-DREAMER  87 

warm  sloth  of  the  sleepers  indoors.  He  caught  a 
|:lm.pse  of  a  face  at  a  lower  window,  but  the  frozen 
brilliance  of  a  lawn  gleamed  between  him  and  it,  and 
he  could  not  see  it  clearly.  Re  slowed  his  pace  at  the 
n.xt  street  corner,  and  hesitated  there  until  he  re- 
membered that  the  Conservatory  of  Music  stood  in 
he  middle  of  the  block  below:  then  he  turned  in  that 
cl.rection,  with  the  scarcely  conscious  intention  of 
ookmg  at  the  door  through  which  she  was  to  enter 
0  her  studies  and  the  windows  from  which  she  was 
to  look  out. 

He  was  thinking  of  her  blissfully,  deep  in  his 
dreams,  when  he  heard  a  muffled  sound  of  hurried 
footsteps  behind  him.  He  was  in  front  of  the  Con- 
servatory, now,  and  he  walked  very  slowly,  to  let  the 
passerby  go  before  him,  so  that  he  might  stand  and 
paze  If  he  pleased.  He  heard  a  quick  breath  at  his 
elbow.  He  pretended  to  be  curiously  interested  in 
the  red  stone  building,  bald  and  formal,  among  its 
stripped  trees.  A  low  voice-her  voice-choked  with 
nuschief,  asked:  "Well?     How  dp  you  like  it?" 

t.he  was  gasping  between  laughter  and  the  attempt 
0  catch  her  breath,  flushed  with  the  exertion  of  ovi- 
taking  him  and  enjoying  almost  hysterically  the  awk- 
wardness of  his  surprise.  He  stammered:  "Why- 
rr  ^.  I  y^  """*  eonseious  of  taking  the  hand 
•Inch  she  held  out  to  hiin.  He  stared  at  her  in  a 
•li'mb  amazement  that  was  ludicrous.  "How  did 
you — "  uiu, 

"I  saw  you  pass  the  house. 
at  the  window?" 


Did  n  't  you  see  me  ?— 


88 


DON-A-DREAMS 

'\o. 


lie  shook  his  head  blankly.     "Xo.     Waa  it  you 
following  me?"  "oa  n  you- 

She  noddcdj  breathless. 
"Why  didn't  you  call  out?" 

That  I  vas  eomins?" 

"Yes-to  study  music."  His  smile  was  for  him 
sc^f  now  as  he  saw  the  situation.  "I  came  to  I' 
whether  you  were  here  yet  " 

••Really?"    He  had  not  changed,  she  thought-  hi, 

pathy,  as  warm  as  a  clasp  of  hands 

voice  shook  on  the  word  with  a  hu^  t^i^emblf '  "^ 
She  looked  away  from  him  in  quick  embarrassment 
glancing  around  her  at  the  fro.en  silence  tilt  hd  ' 
theni  m  the  heart  of  an  immense  calm       "is  n't 
'S  n't  It  funny?    Why  is  it  so  quiet?" 

She  wore  a  little  sealskin  cap  set  jauntily  on  the 
Jark  brown  luster  of  her  hair,  and  under  a  wave  o 
that-as  she  turned-he  saw  the  rosy-tender  daLt 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


89 

ress  of  her  car,  a  little  curled  shell  of  an  car  that 
appealed  to  everything  masculine  in  him  as  the  sSt 

It"!",  t "/""''"'  «"«"^ ""'  -pp-' «°  «''  'h 

■  win    i    •    «       r*"""-      "^'    •'•'■"•'^    '''™''"    reply: 
oS  Jet  '^""'''''    ^""  "'  ""'*  ^«  "-"^  *'"'"  «'«ht 

.She  had  a  eough.     I  loft  her  in  bed  " 

He  blinked  the  existence  of  her  mother-of  every- 
one  but  the  two  of  them  alone  and  together.  "Have 
you  had  your  breakfast?" 

"No.  .  .  .    Have  you?" 

fh"^,l"    ^f,^'^'^"'^  darinply,  in  u  voice  that  belie.l 
he  attempted  bravado  of  his  smile:  "I  eould  n't  wait 
1  wanted  to  sec  you." 
Jhe  tried   tc   laugh  at   him  again.     "You  funny 

"I  knew  I  'd  meet  you." 

"How?" 

"I  don't  know.    Are  you  going  to  church?" 

Ihe  hungry  directness  of  the  appeal  confused  her 
I  suppose  so.     v,s.     After  breakfast." 
"Where?     What  one?" 
"Whichever 's  the  nearest." 
"St.  Stephen's?" 

She  tried  to  fence  with  him,  to  get  time  to  think. 
Is  that  the  nearest?" 
"Yes."    He  waited. 
She  looked  around  her  vaguely.     "Where  is  it?" 

I    U  show  you.     After  breakfast.  .  .  .  May  I?" 


.f*?,** 


90 


DON-A-DREAMS 


She  hfl,l  novor  b,.f„n.  .s-,,,  that  .xpn>s,io„  in  a  fmr 
0    heard  tlm,   ...nc  i,,  „  v.,i,...;  „„,,  th..y  fright  n   I 

h  -Oh  '"z  '"":..""•*  ^"^'^  *'"•■"«''  •-"  fl' «o";.„ 

bLic    h  f     •^°"/'"'"«'      "he  faltored.    "I  ,„ust  hum- 

started    with   a   quick  step,   toward   the   house-   an, I 
he  atumbled  .„  the  snow  as  he  turned  with  her/l., 
ng  at  her-,„«tead  of  watehinp  the  path  he  was  walk- 

«ec  me      she  said.    "You  must  n't  eome  to  fhc  door." 
mother""'  "'''■      ""°"    ''''    «•>""    ^    '^'l 

He  asked,  startled:  "Tell  her  what?" 

"Why,  that  I- 1  ran  after  you?" 

''Don-t  tell  her.     Tell  her  you  met  me  at  ehurel, 
I  11  meet  you  there." 
^^She  ^hinted  ^iltily:  "I  promised  her  I  would  n't 

"Well,  you  did  n't,  did  you?" 
"No,  I  only  wrote  Jessie.     But  if  I  make  an  an- 
pomtment  to  meet  you,  is  n't  that-" 
"Don't  make  it.     I  '11  meet  you  " 
"Where?" 

;'You  're  not  to  know.  What  time  will  you  1„. 
going- to  church?"  ' 

She  started  forward  rapidly  again,  without  answer- 
ing,  but  he  kept  pace  with  her.  "To  St.  Stephen's'" 
he  pressed  her.  "It  's  right  ahead  of  „s-about  four 
blocks  up  the  street."     When  she  did  not  reply   he 


THE  DAY-DREAMER  91 

At  last,  gho  said,  almost  in  a  w.ispcr,  hor  face 
shamefully  suffused :  "Yes,  .  .  .  but  yo  .  must  n't  come 
iiny  further  now.  There  's  the  hous.,  -where  you  see 
ih.«e  little  trees  along  the  'boulevard'."  She  nut  out 
luT  hand.    "Oood-bye." 

He  held  it  a  moment.     "Good-bye." 

When  she  (jlaneed  back  from  the  gate,  he  was  stnnd- 
inK  where  she  had  left  him,  his  hand  half  raised  from 
nleasing  hers,  gazin";  after  her. 

She  disappeared;  and  he  looke.i  about  him,  blink- 
iiiR,  like  a  man  wh--  'lus  seen  a  vision  and  do'-s  not 
recognize  the  familial  d  unchanged  world  in  which 
it  has  left  him. 


He    turned    dazedly    down    the    street.      Beautiful' 
How  beautiful  she  was!    That  was  his  first  thought. 
And  It  was  not  a  thought  so  much  as  a  mental  picture 
of  her   which   he   could   gloat   over   now,    in   silence, 
without  the  distraction  of  speech.     He   framed   her 
face  in  the  hollow  of  his  hands  and  held  it  before 
him-the  dear  girl's  face,  laughing  up  at  him  from 
Its  dimples,  with  a  tenderer  gleam  in  the  mischievous 
eyes!     Beautiful!      Beau-IIe    came    down    with    a 
startling  jolt  from  the  sidewalk  into  the  drifted  gut- 
tor.     He  pulled  himself  together  with  a  half  laugh, 
and  hurried  away  down  the  avenue  like  one  possessed! 
And  he  was  possessed.     His  ey.  f  were  possessed  by 
lier  smile,  his  ears  by  the  note  of  her  voice,  his  train 
by  the  trivial  words  she  had  spoken,  his  nerves  by 
the  thrill  that  had  set  him  shaking  when  he  had  tried 
t"  say  good-bye  to  her.    She  had  taken  him,  body  and 


92 


DON-A-DREAMS 


mnl;  ami  hu  bloml  wa.  in  a  fever,  and  hi,  thoughts 
"ore   ,  phr,ougIy   confused.     But  even  ho,   there   vv 

a.  the  boy  of  the  classie  fable  must  have  thought    , 
h«   Boddess   when   she   .leseende..    ,„   him-Diana-l 

th  nfr  "r    '  "■""""'  '"  '•'"'•     She  was  so,,,,- 

shipped  w,th  that  passionate  reverenee  which  tl  ■ 
poets  mal.e  of  love.  All  his  >.,lisi„us  emotion 
f  "sin::  i""";'""  ''"'""  ""*'^'*  "^  "-  -Pt'2  " 
H>s  make-beheves,  his  day-dreams  of  her,  had  snr- 
rounded  her  with  a  sort  of  glory  that  was  ^art  of  ,  ■ 
bewitchment  of  her  beauty.  He  did  not  even  dar 
111  his  thought,  to  kiss  her  hand 

wat^lr*'  Tn  ""*  ""■    '^^'  P'""^  °f  his  „,i,„l 

Txitv  r  k'  "I*"'"'"''  "'""«■  ^^'"h  the  co,„- 
pUxity  of  a  brain  that  was  trained  to  cheat  its-ir 

that  ""■"  'T'^^'-^^'''^'^  hut  still  was  never  ignorant 
that  It  was  being  cheated,  Don  was  aware  that  his 
re  ations  with  her  were  not  to  be  simply  those  .( 
blind  worship  and  accepted  love.  Her  frighte,,..,! 
eonfusion,  when  his  voice  had  betrayed  him,  war,,,,! 

17:.TV  \'"'''  ""''"'y  «°''  '"^°'-  ^-""Id  only 
drive  her  from  him;  that  he  must  be  politic;  that  she 
v^as  a  human  be.ng  judging  him  in  accordance  with 
the  conventions  of  human  society,  and  not  as  clair- 
voyant  as  a  goddess  or  as  untramraeled  as  an  ideal 


THE  DAV-DREAAfER 


M 


He  mKlewtood  that  he  wa,  in  „  „„„„.  „^„i„,,  ,,,,   „ 

«th  all  the  madnesH  „f  „  l„v..r,  ho  d..v.lop..<l  «,.„ 
of  the  instinetiv,.  eraftincsN  as  well 
ire  began  to  plan,  walking  „,„re  delib.Tat..|y  and 

1.  r  mother,  of  course,  would  be  the  ^rent  opp„„o„t 
"I  any  free  mtereourse  with  her;  and  thou^-h  h 
«ht  perhaps  call  on  her,  in  the  restricted  eirele  of 
parenta  survedlanee,  that  would  be  to  brin^  the  la.ly 
o  h>s  dremns  down  t.,  the  eonm„.,.p|„oes  of  everyday 
We,  and  he  rejeete.l  the  tho„,.ht.     What  he  wanted 

as  he  had  had  her  m  the  innocent  be«inni„fe^  of  thei; 
companionship  at  Coulton,  as  he  had  always  had  .er 
in  imagination,  since 

niedUatfor'  "'  """  "*  '""^  •'°^-"'  ""^  "*'  '-"^led 

The  mistress  of  the  house  in  which  he  boarded  had 
mo  herly  regard  for  her  studious  guest,  an.l  served 
hm.  without  intruding  any  remarks  upon  him  when 
'•ver  she  saw   him   preoccupied   with   thought.     I    r 
J  ..fe'hter,   long  ,i„ee  discouraged  in  the  Lt  atto" 

a  d  sdai^f'T  r*  '*"'"  '""""'''y'  """   f"'"""  back 
0    a  disdainful  silence  m  her  unavoidable  meetings 

critic  whose  appreciations  had  been  despised  The 
'>me.year  old  son  who  completed  the  fanii ly  was  al 
ways  silently  engaged  at  b«.akfast  in  an  aUem^t  to 
-Old   eating   porridge-which   he   hated   unheaUhiy 


DON-A-DREAMS 


94 

and  his  mother  maJe  him  eat-by  smuggling  as  much 
ot  It  as  possible  into  his  coffee  cup,  drinking  off  th. 
overflow  of  coffee  and  emptying  the  guilty  mug,  later 
in  the  kitchen.  Mother,  daughter  and  son  left  Don' 
to  his  plans. 

Nevertheless,  when  he  went  out  to  waylay  Margaret 
on  her  road  t..  church,  he  had  formed  no  design  for 
circumventing  the  difficulties  in  his  path.  He  saw- 
no  further  than  the  fact  that  he  was  to  meet  her 
again.  It  was,  perhaps,  for  the  last  time,  alone-  but 
at  least,  it  was  this  once;  and  he  took  what  joy  h,.' 
could  from  that  concession  of  circumstance 


He  had  been  pacing  up  and  down  in  the  cold,  for 
htteen   minutes,    kicking   his   toes   into   his    heels   to 
keep  his   feet   warm,   idling  at  corners   and   turniiK' 
a  dozen  times  in  a  block  to  see  whether  she  was  com"^ 
ing  behind  him-trembling  with  hope  at  one  thought 
shivering  with  cold  and  the  prospect  of  disappdnt-' 
ment  at  the  next-when  he  saw  her  between  the  ave- 
nue   trees,    walking    toward    him    slowly,    graceful 
against  the  shining  background  of  the  snow,  her  head 
down  with  the  appearance  of  knowing  that  she  was 
doing  wrong.    And  the  flush  of  pleasure  with  which 
he  had  sighted  her,  faded  out  in  uneasiness  as  her 
manner  became  more  reluctant  and  unjoyful  with  lur 
approach. 


THE  DAY-DREAMER  95 

"I  'm  not  going  to  church,"  she  announced  hur- 
riedly. "I  can't  stay  away  from  mother  so  long. 
She  is-we  're  afraid  she  may  be  catching  pneu- 
monia." 

He  dropped  his  hand  from  his  cap.  His  disappoint- 
ment was  so  complete  that  it  left  him  blank ;  he  had 
nothing  to  say. 

She  turned  over  the  snow  with  her  foot,  and  patted 
it   down  nervously.     "I  'm   sorry,"   she   said,   "but 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,"  he  put  in  bravely.  "Only 
I  'II  not  have  a  chance  to— I  hope  it  is  n't  serious?" 

"We  don't  know  yet." 

"What  does  the  doctor  say?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "We  have  n't  sent  for  him. 
We  're  waiting  to  see." 

"Oh."    He  watched  her  working  at  the  snow. 

After  an  awkward  silence,  she  said:  "I  must  hurry 
riRht  back."  And  there  was  a  half-heartedness  in 
the  way  she  said  it,  as  if  she  were  assuring  herself 
that  she  meant  to  do  it,  very  soon. 

He  caught  the  note.  "Won't  you  walk  to  the  cor- 
ner and  back?    It  's  better  .  .  .  waiting  ...  out  here." 

A  "cutter"  passed  them  with  a  rousing  jintrle  of 
bolls.  The  sunlight  was  etching  the  shadow  of"  bare 
branches  on  the  snow.  He  saw  in  her  face  that  she 
folt  the  contrast  between  the  crisp  brilliancy  of  the 
morning  and  the  heavy  atmosphere  of  indoors. 
"Well,"  she  agreed,  as  if  conditionally. 
When  they  had  srone  a  few  steps,  he  asked:  "Have 
you  ever  seen  the  college?" 


^1^ 


96 


DON-A-DREAMS 


"No.  ...    Is  it  farf" 

;'Just  two  streets  over-to  the  grounds." 

wit^'herT'"  °"*  """*  ''"^'"^'  ^«^»S  made  a  truce 
w^h  her  conscience,  apparently;  and  when  he  ask7,l 

I  dWnr  f*  Hortonr'     she  answered  "Oh    yt 

l£lLr       '  ''"•^'^"  "*  «"■     W'=  'liJ-'t  know 
gmte  what  we  were  going  to  do  " 

"About  what?" 

"About  everything!  Mother  has  been  having  dif 
ficulty-w.th  lawyers,  you  know-about  propertv  I 
mean  "t.tles'-in  father's  will,  and  now  she  haf  wTn 

ndT  "V"'"  "'"^'""^  «"'»  '--*«d  'he  "one; 
and  she  wants  to  travel-to  Germany  or  some  pW 
where  I  can  study  musie-or  New  York  " 

Are  n't  you  going  to  be  at  the  Conservatory?" 

in„  h^I  .   ?!  ""''"^  apprehension  which  her  greot- 
ng  had  started  in  him,  had  been  slowly  easing     Zl 

hZ      'Z""  ^"'■'^  '"^  '*^  P''"^^  «  bubbling  sense  0 

1  e  struggled  to  repress  his  smiles.     He  looked  down 

*  I  hope  if:Lt° ,"  ^''T'"'  °'  ^'^^"°^  -  church, 
voice  *"  "'  ^"'^  "^  *''«*•"  ''^  «''W  i"  a  fake 


THE  DAT-DEEAMEB 


97 


"What?" 
"Her  cold." 

h,?i!"'  ■  ■;  ^^"r  °°*-"  ^^^  ^'"'"■•'■'l  '"•"Md  at  hiw 
but  he  pretended  to  be  examining  the  front  of  a  house' 
across  the  road.  She  put  up  her  hand  to  pat  ani 
fin«.T  the  cml  of  hair  at  the  back  of  her  head    and 

t'that  ht  '  "*  '"  ''^"'"'  "'"'''■"«  ''^  -'--  hJ 
saw  that  her  arm  was  shaking. 

"Wh— what's  the  matter?" 

The   irrepressible   quiver  of   laughter  in   his   voiee 

snickered  They  besan  to  lauKh  in  a  .sort  of  sud- 
pressed  hystem.  blundering  alo^g  through  the  snow 

iorchSn.'^'""'^  "'  '''''-  ^"^-«°-'-  '^^•^'  ^ 
;'!  did  n't  say  anything,"  he  protested. 

th™  afrel."  '"°"^'"  ''''  "'""■     ^^'  *^«*  ^tart.d 

They  had  gone  a  block  before  they  recovered  eon- 

t'ol  of  themselves;  and  even  then  their  conversation 

Itrlint  fW  .   ^**''"   ^"•^    '"•"'^■™    down    the 

restramt  that  separated  them;  it  had  joined  them  in 

n  uneonscous   conspiracy   against  her  mother     and 

L>  Coulton  ^  '"^"  r""  *°  *^*^  o-araderie  of 
heir  Coulton  days.  No  matter  what  commonplaces 
they  spoke  now,  there  was  a  sparkling  undercurrent 

:.rrd    r'  T"^  ''''''''''''^•-''  ^--/beneath' 

"r  words,  almost  in  a  secret  understanding    like 

he  furfve  twinkles  of  two  actors  who  had  befn    ok- 

■n.  together  in  the  wings  before  they  «une  "ut'on 

1 


98 


DON-A-DREAMS 


'^ 


the  stage  to  speak  their  lines.    With  Don,  the  acting 
was  not  unconscious;  he  was  well  aware  that  he  was 
not  voicing  the  tumult  of  his  heart.     But  with  her 
the  inner  workinp:  of  her  thought  was  in  the  more 
complicated   spirit  of  a  mild   flirtation.     She   knew 
that  she  was  playing  with  fire,  for  the  first  flame  in 
Dons  eyes,   that  morning,  had   frightened  her-  but 
he  had  hidden  it  now,  though  she  knew  it  was  still 
there;  and  while,  in  her  words,  she  refused  to  recog- 
nize It,  she  fed  it  with  glances,  with  smiles,  with  little 
dimpling  blushes,  warmed  and  excited  by  it,  girlishly 
She  asked  him  what  he  had  been  doing  at  college- 
and  he  told  her  what  lectures  he  had  been  taking 
and  what  subjects  he  preferred.     She  asked  him  how 
he  had  spent  his  Christmas;  and  he  replied  with  re- 
port of  the  friends  whom   she  had  left   in   Coulton 
and  of  the  small  events  of  the  town.    They  made  no 
reference  to  that  past  which  included  his  love  letter 
and    Its   result.     He   said    nothing   of   his    constant 
thought  of  her,  nothing  of  his  revolt  against  the  dic- 
tation of  his  father,  nothing  of  his  inner  life  at  all 
He    kept   their   conversation   on   the   easy   plane   of 
friendly  chatter;  and  when  she  brushed  against  his 
shoulder,  in  a  narrowing  of  the  path,  he  did  not  speak 
until  the  choke  of  emotion  had  died  down  again  in  his 
throat. 

She  liked  skating  better  than  toboganning;  he  had 
done  very  little  of  either.  She  recalled  with  enthu- 
siasm a  "bobbing"  party  which  the  girls  had  had  at 
Horton,  last  winter,  on  a  moonlit  night;  and  he 
laughed  at  her  description  of  how  she  had  blown  a 


THE  DAY-DREAMER  99 

tin  horn  in  the  ear  of  a  teacher  whom  she  disliked. 
He  learned  that  she  was  contemptuous  of  bors 
who  wore  "spring  skates,  you  know,"  instead  of  the 
hockey  skates  which  screwed  to  the  sole  of  the  shoe; 
and  he  marked  the  distinction  in  his  memory  as  if 
it  were  a  point  of  correct  dress  to  be  observed.  And 
lie  was  so  unaffectedly  interested  in  everything  she 
said-in  such  sympathetic  accord  with  all  her  likes 
and  dislikes,  and  so  eager  to  hear  every  scrap  of  in- 
formation that  would  help  him  to  imagine  her  in  the 
life  which  she  had  led  in  their  scparation-that  she 
enjoyed  her  walk  like  a  princess  among  courtiers  and 
rewarded  him,  regally,  with  her  smile. 

When  they  saw  the  towers  of  "Varsity"  showing  in 
(lark  grey  above  the  snow-powdered  tops  of  the  pines 
which  screened  the  building  from  this  approach,  he 
was  reminded  of  his  cousin,  and  asked  quickly: 
"Have  you  seen  him— Conroy— yet?" 
"Not  yet." 

"He  will  be  calling  to  see  you  as  soon  as  he  hears." 
"I  suppose  so.    Yes." 
"If  your  mother  's  not  too  ill." 
"But,"  she   flughed,  "I  did  n't  say  she  was  so  ill 
It  was  Mrs.  Kimball  who  was  afraid  she  might  be 
setting  pneumonia.     I  just-I  did  n't  like  to  say  I 
was  goii.g  to  church  without  her,  so  I  said  I  was 
Koing.  .  .  to  take  a  little  walk.  .  .  while  the  sun  was 
out." 

"Oh."  When  he  had  readjusted  his  thoughts  to 
that  change  in  the  situation,  he  went  on  boldly  "I 
might  call  with  him,  then?" 


100 


DON-A-DREAMS 


"I  'm  sure- Yes,  of  course.    Why  notf  " 
sib   '.  "T'*"^'  'V  '"""•'r-oMaet  a  tone  as  pn. 
ar^  he  '11  ask  me  to  go  with  him  ...  I  think  " 
iJ      Tf  ^^^"""^  '^^  ^"^^  J"™'   archly,  "aecepted 
1  Ig""^*'""  ""'•'''  *^«  P'-  -Pl-d     "Well? 
They  walked  in  a  guiltily-smiling  silence  until  tlu- 
came  to  tho  side  gate  of  the  college  grounds.     Th 
agreement  required  that  Conroy  should  not  see  ihe 
together.    Don  said:  "He  's  in  Residence,  you  know" 
and  nodded  toward  the  building  ' 

She  turne,l  ,,uickly.     "I  must  n't  go  any  furtbe,- 
I  've  been  away  so  long  already  "  ' 

avenue'"''"'      ''   '""■     ""^^ ''   ^°   ""'^'^   "y   „,„ 
It  was  the  longest  way  round 
As  soon  as  the  college  was  out  of  sight  in  the  treos 

they  went  along  with  their  chatter,  stepping  out 
asamst  a  wmd  that  was  sifting  the  snow  down  on 
them  from  the  branches  overhead.  He  asked  h!r 
whether  she  was  ,old-because  the  quesdon "  v  ^ 
an  excuse  for  looking  at  her  with  a  lingering  apn" 

ri  h  7"^"  *'"*  '""^  ^'^  not,'but'trie'd  ; 
turn  up  her  collar  to  show  him  a  woman's  apprecia- 

.on  of  h,s  thought  of  her  comfort.  And  when  e 
collar  came  up  awkwardly,  she  let  him  help  her  with 

.l^r  ^-'u'f '''  ""*  *°  """"^  the  reverent  timidity 
with  which  he  did  it.  ^ 

"Are  n't  you  too?"    she  asked.    "Turn  yours  up," 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


101 

-repaying  him  with  innocent  full  eyes  that  onjoyeU 
the  confusion  they  created. 

■^!'\^  '°7^  '""  °"  "»•'*•"  he  stammered,  but 
ra,Bed   the   collar   obediently   with   an   expression   of 

l"1  f  """".'^  P''"'"''  '"'''  ""  blushingly  grateful 
that  ,t  appealed  to  her  affection  like  the  clumsy  de 
votion  of  the  awkward  age.  ^ 

She  continued  their  conversation  in  a  more  serious 
one  for  the  remainder  of  the  way,  drawbg  f  om 
h.m  the  confession  that  he  did  not  intend  to  study 

n.l  when  they  stopped  at  the  street  corner  beiow  hei- 
house  again,  she  gave  him  her  hand  with  demu 
Kood  wishes  for  his  success  in  whatever  -course  "he 
deeded  to  follow;  and  he  carried  away  with  him  a 
momory  of  her  gentle  confidence  that  was  at  one  a 
benediction  and  a  surety  for  hope 

He  took  a  long  walk,  that  afternoon,  to  the  elm 

rro'n%h!'t  '''""^'  'r  ""'"^  with'him  look    g 
Inwn  on  the  town;  and  he  stood  there  in  the  snow 
eamng  against  the  tree,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  X' 
tant  spire  of  St.  Stephen's  that  marked  the  qua    er' 
which  she  lived.     After  supper,  he  locked  h'm 
elf  m  his  room,  and  having  lit  his  lamp  and  opeTd 
h    books   he  spent  the  evening  in  idleness,  trying  to 
dr  w  a  picture  of  her  in  lead  pencil  on  a  i^age  of  h  s 
note  book,   tantalized  by   the   visual   memory  of  her 
Ti.\:  ""f  ,-*  -P-duee-or  aband^Lg  h  ^ 
n  til  LT      '''T'^  '^'''  '^'^^^  his  head  a„5  arms 
hL  t  ^1"'  r''""^  Windly-until  the  cold   drove 
h.ni  to  bed.     There,  he  lay  on  his  back,  his  hand 


102 


DON-A-DREAMS 


clasped  over  his  head,  staring  at  the  blackness  in 
which  he  saw  sudden  retinal  images  of  her  that 
flashed  and  vanished.  And  he  tried  to  make  his  bid 
rock  down  through  the  floor  to  "Slumberland"-in 
a  return  to  his  childish  fancies— holding  to  the  mem- 
ory of  her  in  the  hope  that  he  might  compel  her  to 
come  into  his  dreams;  and  he  woke,  with  a 
start,  his  arms  numb,  his  shoulders  aching,  and 
found  the  thought  of  her  again,  and  cuddled  down 
with  it  under  the  bedclothes  like  a  child  who  wakes 
frightened,  and  finds  its  mother's  hand  there  in  tlit 
dark. 


VI 


It  was  next  day  that  Conroy  met  him  in  the  col- 
lege  corridor,  and  took  him  aside,  to  the  deep  em- 
brasure of  a  wir  iow,  with  a  manner  at  once  confused 
and  mysterious.  "Read  this,"  he  said,  and  drew 
from  his  pocket  the  small  envelop  of  a  note  from  her. 
It  announced  that  she  and  her  mother  were  staying 
with  the  Kimballs,  invited  him  to  call,  and  concluded 
"If  there  are  any  other  of  our  Coulton  friends  in 
town,  will  you  please  let  them  know?" 

Don  read  it,  refolded  it,  returned  it  to  its  envelop, 
and  gave  it  back  without  a  word. 

Conroy  asked  timidly:  "Did  n't  she  write  to  you?" 

He  shook  his  head.    "No." 

"Perhaps  she  did  n't  know  you  were  here." 

"Yes.    I  think  she  knew." 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


103 


His  cousin  turnt'd  the  note  over,  without  putting 
It  back  in  his  pocket,  in  a  manner  of  disowning  it 
apologetically.    "That 'a  queer." 

"Whyf" 

"I  don't  know.  I  thought- Are  n't  you  going  to 
see  herf" 

"I  think  so.    Yes." 

"Are  you!    Whenf" 

"Whenever  you  like." 

Conroy  was  obviously  relieved.  "I  '11  call  for  you 
on  my  way  over  to-night,  shall  I  J" 

"Yes  ...  if  you  're  going  to-uight" 

"About  half-past  eight?" 

"That  '11  do.    Yes." 

"You  '11  be  ready?" 

"I  '11  try  to." 

"All  right.     Half -past  eight,  sharp." 

Don  escaped,  ashamed  of  his  deception;  and  Con- 
roy,  before  he  tucked  away  the  letter  in  his  pocket 
fingered  it  a  moment,  smiling  like  a  flattered  young 
Lothario. 


IlB    arrived     at     Don's     boarding-house     at     eight 

0  clock,  m  high  spirits,  and  assumed  the  leadership 
of  the  expedition  at  once,  laughing  and  talking  aiul 
straightening  his  necktie  before  the  mirror  and  coek- 
ing  his  head  on  one  side  to  see  the  "set"  of  his 
trouser  legs,  while  he  waited  for  Don  to  polish  a  pair 

01  cracked  shoes.  He  was  too  boyish  to  have  any 
self-conscious  vanity,  but  he  glanced  at  his  watch, 
patted   It   back   into   his   pocket,    and   smoothed   his 


104 


DON-A.DKEAJrs 


waistcoat  with  a  pleased  an.l  exeitecl  air  that  w„„),l 
have^b.;e„      an  olUer  n.an  the  antieipation  of  a  '  t 

Sa  But  h  "'""  ""'^"''''""•'•=  his  features  we...  „„ 
flat  But  he  was  well-dressed  ami  well-built,  and  1„. 
had  the  assuranee  „f  an  easy  n.anner.     He  ;ccei 

he^had    the   effeet   of   increasing,    pcrvers^-ly,    Lul 
They  came,  together,  to  the  door  of  the  old   "semi 

he  ed..   ,^?  tH  'u""'^'  '*''"'''''*^'  ^""^  himself  „„ 

the  edge  of  the  porch  to  look  at  the  lighted  curtain, 
of  the  wmdow  at  which  she  had  stood  to  see  him  p 
on  Sunday  morning.     And  when  a  maid  opeZi  the 
■    ofThe  ."n  ''""'"'^''  '"'  """"  *•>«  -imson'gasi 
ac"''  "  """"""^  "^  -^  •"=  "«''  "een'ente'ri.!; 
Lights   and   laughter   and   the   music   nf   »    ,,- 

r ';'.'■■'":,  "'''•  •^-""-ment  aCrat  L,     Z 
parted  the  hangings  of  a  doorway  at  his  elbow    «. 
greeted   Conroy  and   him   with   a^aj^gy  L 
«nde,  dressed  as  he  had  never  seen  her  k-f^re     „ 
young  g,rrs  evening  gown  with  elbow  sleevr'    Sh 
ushered  them  into  a  blading  room  of  ^his  an 

m'Sv  If' ""'  '"*"-'"^"''''"  *"-  *" "  ^u'titui:: 

company-of  seven  persons.    Her  mother,  a  small  an,! 
pretty  woman  with  young  eyes,  met  them-Tn  sn 
of  a  hoarse  cold-with   the  bright  friendliness   th 

iTfte.  f/";'  ^'*  '"^'•-    ^''-  Ki-nball,  with  "    i  j 
lifted  the  drooped  and  puffy  eyelids  of  a  strong  Z;' 


THE  DAY-DHEAMER  105 

«n,l  acknowl,.,(gcd  thnir  bows  with  tli,.  sliphtest  incli- 
n»t,,,n    .,f    her    head,    grey-lmired    and    (ine-I«»kinK 
Ihree  young  ladieg  who  were  to  Don  three  different 
arrangements   of    feminine   eyes,    nose   and    movnhg. 
smiled  politely  and  forgot  him.     A  young  mar    with 
a  pinee-nez-whom  he  recognized  as  an  uppc.   stu- 
dent of  the  univer8ity-ghoo)<  his  hand  with  a  manner 
of  condescending,   for  the  moment   only,   to  meet  a 
freshman  as  a  social  equal.     Another  man.   prem,.- 
t.>r..|y  bald,  said  deeply  "Glad  to  know  you,"  and  then 
startled  him  with  a  limp  touch  of  indifferent  Hnue.s 
which  he  dropped  like  a  wet  fish.    He  recovcK-d  from 
liis  embarrassment  to  find  himself  sitting  beside  a  girl 
whom  he  subsequently  discovered  to  be  the  younger 
I'f  Mrs.  Kimball's  two  daughters. 

She  opened  conversation   with  him,   patronizingly 
by  asking  him  whether  he  was  a  .ollege  student,  what 
year     he  was  in,  and  what  "course"  he  was  taking, 
and  leaning  back  in  her  chair  with  an  unnecessary 
Imughtmess  that  brought  out  a  striking  pose  of  her 
neck  and  head,  she  regarded  him  with  a  cool  curiosHy 
m  which  there  was  something  inimical.     He  did  not 
understand  that  she  rather  shone  in  her  young  circle 
as  a  girl  who  questioned  the  intellectual  superiority 
of  men-as  evidenced  in  college  students-and  who 
prided    herself    on    discouraging    with    sarcasms    the 
masculine  adoration  which  her  beauty  brought  her 
He  replied  to  her  with  a  divided  attention,  aware  that 
•nnroy    and    Margaret-for    the    "Richardson"    was 
still  a  strange  formality  to  his  thought-had  gone  to 
the  piano  toy.ther,  and  that  Conroy  was  preparing 


106 


DON-A-DREAMS 


"I  beg  your  pardon f" 

Mm  Kimball,  after  a  calculated  pause    reoeate.|. 
"ow  do  you  lik,.  Professor  Cotton V'  '         '' 

ami   alter   stammering   distractedly   "I_i   ..on-,     „ 

-rr'r-'-atrr  ^iV'^'  ^""^  "-"^ 

l«  t,  the  .«.,  „,„„_  .,  „  „  j,^   ^^'^ 

singing  of  the  instrument  and  trembled  in  him  till 
;t  ~d  to  him  that  his  vei^  soul  thrfl.ed  and":!; 

It  faded  away  in  a  fluttering  and  sc  ft  appeal  of 


THE  DAV-DREAMER  107 

ninijle  noil's,  and  was  lost  in  a  polite  applause  Ihat 

I      thankfd   her  with   admiring  comment.     "How   well 

sh..  plays!"  "Sho  has  such  excellent  technique,  don't 

you  think  sof "  "My  favorite  nocturne." 

Misa  Kimball   had   been   watchinu  the  changes  of 
his  face.    She  asked  "Do  you  like  Chopin f" 

He  looked  up  at  (he  piano,  transparently  pali',  his 
tyos    burning;    and    he    replied- without    altogether 
understanding  what  she  had  asked— "I  don't 
know  him." 

The  whole  evening  was  a   repetition   in   variations 
"f  that  situation.    Although  he  did  not  wu'eh  Coiir.iy 
an^  Margaret,  his  mind  was  secretly  with  them.    He  lis- 
tened  to  Miss  Kimball  and  replied  to  her  without  be- 
traymg  more  than  a   heavy  simplicity;   and   he  re- 
mained  impenetrable  to  her  curiosity  in  a  way  that 
first  piqued  and  then  bor<>d  her.    When  she  rose  and 
left  him,  Mrs.  Richardson  took  the  chair  beside  him 
and  inquired  for  bis  aunt  and  his  mother,  and  -rled 
to  rally  him  with  smiles.     She  had  been  noticing  the 
way  in  which  Margaret  devoted  herself  to  his  cousin ; 
she  had  been  feeling  some  remorse  for  her  summary 
interdiction  of  Don's  correspondence;  and  she  began 
to  look  at  him,  now,  wilh  the  sympathy  of  a  mother 
who  sees  her  daughter  playing  the  eo(|uette.     But  sh- 
was  surprised  to  find  him  stolidly  unruffled;  when  she 
caught  him  with  his  eyes  on  Margaret,  she  could  find 
no  trace  of  jealousy  in  his  look;  and  she  was  ou/zled 
as  much  as  Miss  Kimball  had  been,  to  sec  him,  more 
than  once,  gaze  around  the  room  with  a  sort  of  won- 


108 


DON-A-DREAMS 


d  nng  .ntcrest  as  ,f  he  were  suddenly  curious  to  hear 

that  he  had  outgrown  his  boyish  love  affair,  and  she 
was  at  onee  reheved  and  disappointed.  She  found  hi 
rather  a  stupid  youth. 

mnni    ?''  u" /'*'*'   ""'"'■natinB  between  the  exalted 

return  to  the  consciousness  of  his  surroundings  At 
one  moment,  he  was  alone  with  Margaret  in  the  grop 

h.  was  sitting  among  these  curious  fellow-human 
who  seemed  to  move  in  a  small  circle  of  light  su" 
rounded  by  the  mysterious  darknesses  of  their  or  gin 
and  their  destiny,  talking  of  nothing,  smiling  at  not, 
■»!?,  and  apparently  unconscious  of  anything  but  what 
was  before  their  eyes.  ' 

When  he  rose  with  them  to  say  good-night  thcv 
seemed  to  close  in  on  him  and  separatf  him  ffom  !ie  ' 
and  ,t  was  as   if  across  their  interference   that  hj 

caught  the  meaning  of  her  smile.     A  slight  pressure 
f  friendliness  seemed  to  reward  him  f or'the 'eveni: 

tnf''Y^Z  TV"""'  ''''''*•'"  *«■"  ^i*  «  ■'»'«''■ 
Miss    Kil    ,  "i      *'"-^'^""-«°d    he    backed    away. 

sm  le  S  "r"'''^    ''™    ^'*''    «    contemptuous 

smile  that  stung  him  into  a  startled  examinatbn  of 
his  conduct  toward  her;  Mrs.  Richardson  did  not  s  y 
Soo.^nlghl  to  him  at  all;  and  while  he  was  wa  t"' 

fng  ^:"Tr"  '"^  '7''  '""^  *""  "•«"  --  -t.  'S 

■ng  ar..  talking,  and  passed  him  over  with  a  glance. 


THE  DAY-DREAMER  109 

luuTlfth^  *'''  '""'  *'"'  ""^  •"">  "*«"  conspicuously 
llh    *^\'^"'"°^;  that  they  looked  on  him  as  a 

edging,  that  even  ,;,e  must  be  ashamed  of  him  when 
she  compared  his  conduct  with  Conroy's.  Whit  a 
clumsy  dolt  he  must  have  seemed!  What  an  ass  he 
was  to  behave  so! 

scene  of"  ht 'I, ''''"''  *'''  "''''  *"  ««*  "^^^  f"""  t^" 
scene  of  his  disgrace  as  soon  as  possible,  but  Conrov 

caught  up  to  him  at  the  gate  and  accompanied  hTm 
IJtTT""":'  ^'*^  "  reminiscent  chuckling  of 

When  he  was  alone  again,  he  wandered  dispiritedly 

around    the    streets     chafing    with    discomfiture    and 

>*til    so  hungry  with  the  unappeased  desire  to  see  her 

nd  hear  her  that  he  could  not  face  the  emptiness  of 

idirfrom  '  T" 'r  *"  '""'^  "*  *'"=  Kimb'll  hie 
idmg  from  a  street-lamp,  behind  a  t,  ..-trunk   across 

::  ztr'  'r  ""*"'*''  ^'^^  ■■^"^^'^  widows  dX 

one  by  one,  newly  aware  of  how  she  was  shut  in  from 
tl?  LT"^  «™.««n«  of  the  world,  and  feeling  him- 
under  the  inscrutable  cold  glitter  of  the  stars. 


VII 

IlE  was  too  shy  to  face  the  Kimballs  again,  and  she 
d.d  not  myite  him  to  do  so ;  for  Miss  Kimball  Ld  made 
a  household  joke  of  his  reply  that  he  did  not      ,    v 


110  D0N-A-DREAM8 

"Mr.  Chopin,"  and  the  girl  was  afraid  that  they 
might  tease  her,  and  make  sport  of  him,  if  he  calkj 
to  see  her.  She  contrived  to  meet  him,  as  if  aeeidem- 
ally,  next  morning,  in  the  stream  of  college  students 
that  drew  in  from  all  the  neighboring  streets,  at  nine 
o  clock,  to  the  beginning  of  the  day's  lectures;  and  he 
learned  from  her  that  he  might  find  her  coming  frow 
her  music  lessons  at  eleven  o'clock  on  certain  moru- 
ings  and  at  five  o'clock  on  other  afternoons 

For  the  moment,  it  was  all  he  wished-the  oppor- 
tunity of  having  her,  if  but  for  ten  minutes,  alone 
and  out  of  doors,  away  from  the  formality  of  parlor 
conversation  and  the  curious  eyes  of  household  gos- 
sips. With  a  young  lover's  instinct,  he  wished  to 
preserve  their  intercourse  from  the  touch  and  soiling 
of  everyday  life.  And  he  parted  from  her  on  a  street 
corner,  without  taking  her  to  the  gate,  glad  to  see 
from  her  manner  that  she  did  not  wish  their  meetings 
to  be  known. 

It  was  the  fresh  beginning  of  one  of  those  strange 
courtships  of  young  people  which  appear  to  the  on- 
looker  so  amusingly  tame.  He  had  suddenly  grown 
humble  with  her.  Compared  with  his  own  social 
awkwardness,  she  seemed  to  him  discouragingly 
bright  and  talented.  Sitting  in  his  room  of  an  even- 
ing, he  pictured  her,  in  the  midst  of  light  and  com- 
pany, charming  everybody  with  her  piano-playing 
and  accepting  their  congratulations  with  an  unem- 
barrassed smile.  Working  at  his  studies  in  the  col- 
lege library,  worried  by  the  uncertain  prospect  of 
his  future,  she  seemed  one  of  those  happy  aristocrats 


THE  DAY-DREAMER  m 

of  art  and  leisure  whose  duty  it  is  to  adorn  life  to 
give  pleasure,  and  to  be  happy  that  they  may  make 
others  so.  Sullied  with  his  own  disbeliefs,  he  thought 
ot  her  innocent  faith  as  something  sweet  and  pure 
He  made  her  the  symbol  of  all  that  is  in  man  the 
substance  of  hope  and  the  object  of  aspiration,  almost 
consciously  uplifting  her  so  that  he  might  gratify  his 
instinct  to  look  up. 

And  yet,  wh.     he  walked  with  her,  he  said  nothing 

of  such  thoughts.     He  was  content,  for  the  present 

that  she  should   take  an  interest  in  his  progress  at 

college,  and  accept  his  devoted  attentions  as  a  pleasant 

matter-of-course.     He  had  his  future  to  plan  anew 

and  he  did  not  seem  to  be  able  to  think  at  once  of 

any  mode  of  life  that  would  be  sufficiently  ideal  for 

her  to  share  it.    He  examined  his  classmates,  walkin" 

home  with  one  or  another  of  them  at  luncheon  hour" 

and  he  found  that  a  few  were,  like  Conroy,  looking 

forward  to  succeeding  their  fathers  in  some  business- 

that  many  were  to  be  lawyers,  more  teachers,  and  some 

mmisters;  but  that  the  majority  did  not  know  what 

they  were  to  be.    They  were  to  decide  after  they  had 

taken  their  degrees. 

Law  and  the  church  were  equally  out  of  the  ques- 
tion for  him;  and  the  schoolhouse  was  even  less  invit- 
ing. He  knew  nothing  of  business;  and  though  he 
consulted  the  "want  columns"  of  the  newspapers 
they  offered  no  suggestions.  He  felt  that  he  might 
have  studied  medicine  perhaps,  or  science,  if  he  had 
b^gun  m  time;  but  it  was  too  late  now;  he  could  not 
turn  back  a.  year  and  start  afresh.     What  he  wished 


112 


DON-A-DREAMS 


was  some  way  of  earning  an  easy  living  without  mak- 
ing himself  the  bound  slave  of  business  or  a  prX" 
sion;  for  he  felt  a  high  contempt  for  all  the  mon  .t 

th^     r.r'   ''^  ''"""'''  ^^""^  he  saw  crowdTn. 
hrough  the  streets  of  the  city,   as  blind   as  driv  n" 
animals    .n  the  pursuit  of  trade  or  patronage.     II 
resolved  that  he  would  find  a  way  to  live  as  fr.e 
a   boy  and   as  independent  as  a   man,   avoiding  .11 
ambitious  cares  or  worries,  content  to  enjoy  a  mod.s 

Pending  his  discovery  of  the  necessary  means  to  tL[ 
end,  he  perfected  his  conception  of  the  end  itself 

of  1 1  ,t,    J"  '^'  '"^  '"  "^^t  him  in  the  door 
of  their  lit  le  home  at  sunset-or  when  she  sat  at  th,. 
p.ano  playing  to  him  of  an  evening  with  the  1  ,  t 
ight  shmmg  on  her  hair-or  when  she  poured  to 
break  ast   coffee   with   a   dainty   turn   of   wHst   „ 
passed  the  cup  to  him,  smiling  beautifully  acr    s 
roses  that  were  always  fresh  in  a  vase  on  the  tal^ 
as  they  were  always  fresh  in  her  cheeks 

Meanwhile,  their  walks  together  were  the  most  a,l 
venturous  and  romantic  meetings.     One  day  i    w 

ndTe'held  r'^  T  ''"'  '^"'^  ''™"^ht  an  u^mbrl 
and  he  held  ,t  over  her,  keeping  so  close  to  her  tha 
hey  were  ahnost  arm  in  arm,  shut  in  with  her  u„ 

biifX  %T  V'' ''"''"'  '""^  ^-""-^  ^'  -"'I; 

of  onrif  ».      r  ^""'  "^'^  *he  day  when  the  ho.. 
of  one  of  her  heavy  winter  shoes  became  untied   a„,l 

ht  and  sr  ""^'' '""''"''' '"  ^^^-*™  the,; ;;,; 

htr,   and   she-m   order  to   steady  herself  while  sho 
«tood  on  one  foot-put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  a^!,) 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


-113 

bent  over  him  laughing  at  his  clumsiness  because  his 
hnsers  were  cold.  And  above  all,  there  was  the  afte 
m,o„  when  she  made  the  excuse,  to  her  mother,  that 
she  had  to  do  some  shopping  down  town;  and  they 
made  the.r  way  to  the  business  district  along  the 
muaM  "back"  streets  of  "The  Ward,"  where  the 
sidewalks  were  so  slippery  that  on  their  return,  in 
he  gathermg   darkness,   she   had   to   take   his   arm 

r/n  lTh\''  '^'  '"'  '"'"^'°^  "  '""^  ''"''-  t°  keep' 
en  with  h.m,  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  the  touch 
otn.r  hand  was  burning  him  thn,ugh  his  sleeve. 

^he  no  longer  had  any  coquettish  timidity  in  her 
manner  towards  him,  and  he  was  careful  to  say  noth- 
.n«  tha    m.ght  frighten  her  into  thinking  seriously  of 

ov    wl     'tT     ^'*  '""^  °*  '•■^  °"'^  declaration  o 
pe  k  of  !*'"  %'^«™"^  '"  "i^  'ntad.     He  did  not 

W  hen  she  asked  h.m  whether  he  had  decided  what  study 
easily       Oh  yes.     I  'm   taking  a  general   course-a 
Z^yT^jy  -"  "•     '  -  ^^t  -y  'degree  in 
"And  then  what  will  you  do?" 
"What  Emerson  says,"  he  laughed 
"What  is  that?" 

"  'Make  yourself  necessary  to  the  world  and  the 
wiuld  will  give  you  bread.'  " 

She  looked  at  him  thoughtfully,  struck  by  the  hope- 

ful  .mpractica  ity  of  his  trust  in  ,he  advice  of  book! 

You    should    read    araerson,"    he    said      "He's 

great.  * 

The^  unworldly  philosophy  of  the  mild  New  Eng- 


114 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


lander  had  come  to  him,  only  a  few  days  before  like 
the  gospel  to  a  new  convert.  He  had  read  with  sla, 
eyes  "You  will  hoar  ever,  day  the  maxims  of  at 
prudence  You  will  hear  that  the  first  duty  is  to  J, 
land  and  money,  place  and  name.  But  why  shouW 
you  renounce  your  right  to  traverse  the  star-lit  deserts 
of  truth  for  the  premature  comforts  of  an  acre,  ho„* 

mankind  will  give  you  bread,  and  if  not  store  of  i, 
yet  such  as  shall  not  take  away  your  property  in  all' 
men  s  possessions,  in  all  men's  affections,  in  art   in 
nature  and  in  hope."     He  had  felt  that  he  shJu 
take  as  the  motto  of  his  life:  "Whoso  would  be  a  m 
must  be  a  nonconformist.     Nothing  is  at  last  sacred 
but  the  integrity  of  your  mind."    He  had  submitte 
m   his   relations  with  her,   to  the  command:   "S 
all  to  love;  obey  thy  heart.     It  is  a  god,  knows  ib 
own  path  and  the  outlets  of  the  sky."    in  rep"  t! 
the  despondencies  of  his  religious  disbeliefs,  he^ia.l 
accepted  as  an  inspiration,  the  high  advic  :  "S 
not  the  Spirit,  if  it  hide  inexorable  to  thy  zeal.    Sa 
^Z  T   ''  ^'''  ""'   '  "^''J^'   fo-ver  to  myse 
stay!      Already  Heaven  with  thee  its  lot  hPj  east 
for  only  ,t  can  absolutely  deal."    And  all  this  poj 
leal  transcendentalism  had  gone  to  his  head,  like  a 

with  enthusiasm,   and  exalted   above   the  "low  pru- 
dence"  and  the  small  facts  of  life 

When  he  learned  from  her  that  Conroy  was  calling 
to   see   her  frequently   in   the  evenings,   he   had  "o 


THE  DAY-DREAMER  115 

jealousy  of  his  cousin-none  even  when  he  heard  that 
she  and  Miss  Kimball  had  Rone  to  the  theater  with 
Ciinroy,  or  when  he  found  that  Conioy  had  Riven  her 
till'  rose  which  she  wore  one  morninR  in  her  coat. 

"He  's  a  funny  boy,  isn't  he?"    she  said. 

lie  nodded,  admiring  her  silently. 

"He  seems  to  be  having-a  'gay'  time  at  college," 
she  went  on. 

"Yes.     That  is  what  he  came  for." 

A  moment  later,  she  added:  "Mother  says  so  many 
boys  at  college  learn  to-to  drink-"  She  blushed- 
"and  gamble." 

He  looked  up  quickly.  "But  he  's  not  that  sort 
ishef"  ' 

"That  's  what  I  told  mother!  She  seemed  to  think 
-but  you  '11  look  after  him,  won't  you?" 

"What  has  happened?" 

"Why,  nothingl  Really  nothing,"  she  cried.  "It 
was  just  that  mother  spoke  of  boys  doing  those  things 
at  college.  And  I  knew  that  you  wouldn't  let  him 
do  them,  if  you  knew.  And  that  's  why  I  mentioned 
it~really." 

"What  made  your  mother  speak  of  it  at  all?"  he 
asked  suspiciously. 

"She-she  had  a  brother  once,  who  went  to  college 
and — " 

"Oh."  He  thought  it  over.  "No.  Con's  all  right 
He'll  take  care  of  himself."  He  was  flattered  by 
her  trust  in  him.  "1  see  him  in  the  halls  almost 
every  day." 

He  did  not  say  that  he  had  been  avoiding  Conroy, 


D0N-A-DBEAM8 


116 

having  refused  a  half-hearted  invitation  to  go  call 
■ng  mth  him  again.  And  he  was  not  shrewd  enou-h 
to  see  that  Conroy  had  been  avoiding  him.  He  onlv 
envied  his  cousin's  opportunities  of  hearing  her 
music;  and  when  she  told  him  that  her  mother  „t 
last,  had  gone  to  a  southern  winter  resort  for 'tl„. 
next  two  months,  he  said:  "I  wish  they  'd  all  go  aw„v 
I  want  to  hear  you  play  again,  and  I  can't  hear  yJu 
when  they  're  all— talking." 

"I   wish   they   would,    too,"   she   replied.      "Thev 
treat   me   as   if   they   thought    J   was   a   baby   that 
shouldn't  be  left  alone  with  anyone  for  five  minutes- 
ihey  re  speaking,  now,  of  going  to  the  Conversat- 
without  ever  asking  me  whether  I  should  like  to  .0 
i   suppose   mother   has   been   telling   them   I'm   too 
young  to  be  going  out." 
"I  suppose." 
"Are  you  going?" 
He  shook  his  head.  "No." 

As  he  was  parting  from  her,  she  said:  "If  they  all 
go  to  the  Conversat  without  me,  I  'II  just  play  to  you 
tnat  night,  as  much  as  you  like."  ' 

He   passed   the  next   few  days   in   a   prayerful   ox- 
pectation  that  they  would   go  to  the  affair  with,,,, 

nZ'    7^r  t      '"'•  ""'^  '^'^  ^''«'  "°*  """••=  than  well 
out  of  the  house,  before  he  rang  the  bell  and  hea,,l 
her  open  the  inside  door  and  call  back  to  the  maid- 
1  11   go,  Maggie." 

She  received- him  under  the  red  gas-globe  of  the 
outer  hall  with  a  mischievous  atfeetation  of  surprise. 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


117 

■  Why,  how  do  you  dof  Aren't  you  going  to  the 
Convereat?"  And  he  entered  as  if  he  had  been  Romeo 
just  arrived  by  way  of  his  rope  ladder. 

She  had  been  sitting  for  her  photograph  on   the 
previous  day,  and  she  had  put  on  again  the  pretty 
dross  which  she  had  worn  for  the  picture.    It  was  cut 
low  and  square  in  the  neck,  to  show  a  throat  that  was 
as  round  as  a  bird's,  girlishly  white  and  soft,  and  to 
h.ni  so  tenderly  beautiful  that  it  took  him  with  a 
blushing  catch  of  the  breath  which  she  sav.  and  smiled 
at  as  she  had  smiled  at  her  reflection  in  the  mirror 
She  patted  the  butterfly  bow  which  she  had  arranged 
as  if  It  had  lighted  artlessly  on  top  of  her  young 
coiffure,  thanking  him  for  his  admiration  with  tri- 
umphant    eyes.     "This     is     so     unexpected!"     she 
said. 

"Won't  she  tell!"  he  whispered. 

She  understood  that  he  referred  to  the  maid  She 
set  the  bow  dancing  with  a  spirited  shake  of  her  head 

I  '11  tell  on  her  if  she  does."  When  they  had  passed 
oi.t,  of  the  hall,  through  the  curtains,  she  explained 
.n  a  choked  undertone:  "There  's  someone  in  the 
kitchen  with  her.  She  's  awfully  funny.  They  won't 
lit  her  have  callers.  She  says  they  're  a  'lot  of  old 
maids'!" 

He  wiped  the  melted  snow  from  his  eyelashes  an-i 
Ins  I'vebrows,  laughing  in  his  handkerchief. 

"I  did  n't  dare  light  all  the  lights,"  she  went  on 
under  her  voice,  "for  fear  the  neighbors  would  see 
It  and  say  something.  Isn't  it  a  joke!"  And  then 
«ith  the  same  gaiety  but  loudly,  fluttering  across  the 


118 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


room   with  a  suddenness  that   biwililcr.,!   him    sh. 

cried:  "How  do  you  like  my  photographs?     iLe]-. 

Ihcy  re  just  the  proofs  I  'ni  to  choose  from  " 
The  smgle  jet  of  gas  above  him  did  not  give  liRht 

enough  for  him  to  make  them  out,  and  she  l.-d  him 

over  to  the  piano-lamp  that  was  glowing  secretly  un- 

der  Its  rose-leaf  shade  in  a  far  corner.     He  was  smil- 

ing  when  he  looked  at  the  first  picture;  she  enjoy,,! 

the   change   of   his  expression.     "Do  you   like   thai 

one?     she  asked. 

Did  he  like  it!  He  gazed  at  it  as  he  would  haw 
Baz,Ml  at  her  if  ho  could  have  had  h.T  unconsei.,- 
"f  h,s  scrutmy  and  undefended  by  the  distractin- 
challenge  of  her  eyes.  She  was  posed  glancing  asi,!,^ 
in  the  shy  demureness  he  most  loved  in  her,  her  n,Tk 
turned  prettily,  her  ear  showing  in  its  nest  of  brown 
hair  as  round  and  white  and  fragile  as  a  little  fi,.l,|. 
bird  8  egg.  After  waiting  a  moment  for  his  an8w,.r 
she  gave  him  the  next  picture,  almost  embarrassed  hy 
his  devourmg  silence;  and  he  blinked  at  the  roguish 
eyes  which  met  his  full  under  level  eyebrows  with  a 
twinkling  gravity  as  if  trying  to  deny  the  smile  th„t 
cur  ed  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  "That  's  the  ono 
1  like,  she  said,  standing  beside  him  to  look  at  it  over 
his  arm.    "That-and  this." 

The  last  was  a  more  formal  portrait,  a  three- 
quarters  view,  with  the  chin  up  saucily  and  the  ex- 
pression one  of  young  alertness  and  sly  penetration. 

1  ve  decided  on  those  two -the  last  two  " 

then?'-"™"^  ^'^^  *°  *^'  ^'■'*-    "^^"^  ^  •  •  ^""^  «'"• 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


119 


•But  it  will  fade  out,  in  the  light.     It  'i  just  a 

proof." 
"I  'II  keep  it— where  it  won't." 
His  tone  sent  her  to  the  piano,  nervously,  and  she 
sat  down  at  the  keyboard,  turning  her  back.    "Well," 
she  said,  running  up  the  scale. 

He  drew  a  long  breath  o»  gratification,  and  passing 
his  hand  over  the  picture  to  brush  a  speck  of  dust 
from  it,  caressingly,  he  laid  it  between  two  letters 
taken  from  his  inside  pocket,  and  pul  it  away  with 
Ihe  warm  flush  of  a  girl  hiding  a  love  letter  in  the 
bosom  of  her  bodice.  She  had  begun  to  play  a  light 
air.  He  sat  down  to  put  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and 
his  ehin  in  his  hands;  and  he  remained  so,  as  if  'he 
music  were  a  bright  stream  flowing  past  him  and  he 
were  staring  at  it,  full  of  his  thoughts. 

It  brought  him  back,  at  last,  to  something  of  her 
own  sparkling  mood;  and  when  she  had  finished  it, 
he  .said:  "I  wish  I  could  play  like  that." 

"Come  on  and  try,"  she  laughed,  moving  aside  on 
the  bench. 
He  hesitated.    "Is  there  room?" 
"There  should  be.     It's  for  the  Misses  Kimball's 
duets." 

"Oh."  He  came  awkwardly.  She  invited  him 
again  by  gathering  in  her  skirts  beside  her.  He  sat 
down. 

"Now.  Put  your  hands  so.  I  may  have  to  earn 
my  living  this  way  some  day.  My  first  pupil!"  And 
with  a  severe  "One— two!  One— two!  One— two!" 
she   began    the   exercises    for   the    first    two   fingers. 


120 


DONA-DREAMS 


y/mu  up.      I„rcarnis   on   h    IrvM   with    the   l.,.v. 
Again!    On«-twol    One-two!    One-"  * 

joki'"""*  ""  """'■  """'"  ^""  f'"^"'''  "«"<''.••  he 

pieus      right     away.     One-two!     One-two i     v  „ 
mu8t  perfect  your  teehni-iue  fIrHt."  ^  " 

And   with    a    stern    preteric,.    of   wri.msness     ihn, 
tremble,!   always  on   the  veri-o   of   UuuZ.    ,t 
hi.  clumsy  fingers  through   ^heir\l'r      t'a "  I.!: 
vein  of  cocuetry  that  ma.le  Iiii„   long  to  cat  h 
.ands  and  crush  them,  as  one  longs  to  ca  ch  u,    , 
trisking  kitten  a.ul  cuddle  it  Hereely  ' 

ihc  Blue  Alsatian  Mountains'" 
lu.|d  hi'  r  'T*  *"-  ♦"""'"^ins  to  be  e„,lu.v.d,  and  I,. 

SI  that  'nr' ""'  "'""^"^  "^'"- 1-''-  -'■' 

im  thatnTght"'"""    "■'"'  '"-'•"'  "-  >-  P'"-V" 
''This  one?"     She  freed  her  fingers  and  began  i,. 

He  did  not  leave  his  scat  beside  her,  and  she  wov,. 

rvifaittTfT; "/  'r  ''''""^"*^ """  -""'"■' 

lilt  viiauty  ot  her  abundant  vounff  lifn     tt„ 

the  ciuteh    f  instincts  which  h'e  T^tt    n  .c:!:; 

ner  by  a  terrible  longing  but  not  daring  to  let  hi,,, 
self  go  because  he  feared  to  put  all  hit  hopes  Z 


THE  DAY-DREAMER  121 

.iifomtroiw  fwt  again,  prematurely  j  and  abov,.  all  lio 
vm  HghtinK  for  hii  transcendentalism  and  willfully 
in  awe  of  his  ideal. 

He  ro«e  from  the  music  Iwnch  and  began  to  walk 
atout  the  room,  trying  to  overcome  hJH  agitation     lie 
(I1.I  not  know  himself,  an.l  he  whs  bewildere.l  by  the 
!.-«.  of  his  self-control.    His  under-jaw  was  trend.ling 
m  his  cheek;  his  throat  ached.     When  she  l<H,ke.l  ut 
him  over  her  shoulder,  with   her  hands   lingering  m, 
the  last  notes,  he  was  so  pale  an.l  distressed  that  she 
cried:      What  's  the  matter?     Are  you  ill?" 
"No,  no,"  he  stammered.    "I  "m— " 
"What  is  it?"     She  came  over  to  him.     He  was 
standing  beside  a  chair,   wiping  the  moist  palm  of 
his  hand  on  his  eoat  sleeve  in  a  fumbling  nervousness 
that  alarmed   her.     She   took   him   by  the  wrist,   to 
stop  h.m.     "What  is   it?"     He  put  his  other  arm 
ahout  her  shoulders  and  drew  her  to  him,  his  face 
twitching;  and  ho  frighlene.l  her  so  thnt  she  ■it-pno<i 
back  at  once,  confused,  and  blushing,  and  concerned 
for  him. 

After  a  helpless  silence,  he  said  "I  'm-all  right 
...  I  was  dizzy."  He  looked  at  the  chair  beside  him' 
'  I  guess  I  '11  sit  down." 

She  returned  to  the  piano  and  began  to  play  again 
to  cover  her  bewilderment.  They  passed  the  rest  of 
the  evening  with  the  width  of  the  room  between  them 
Ami  he  replied  to  her  with  a  labored  deliberation, 
pausing  in  the  middle  of  his  sentences  to  take  breath 
in  a  way  that  reminded  her  of  an  amateur  singer's 
taulty  "phrasing." 


122 


D0N-A-DRJ5AMS 


After  he  had  f  me,  she  remained  seated  there   her 
hands  e  asped  between  her  knees,  in  a  girlish  a    itu.e 

It  was   because  she  recalled   his  thin   fingers  on   Ih, 
p.ano  keys  and  his  bony  wrists  exposed  befow  Ws  c 

eeves  by  the  outstretching  of  his  arms.     Wh  „  ^^ 
frowned,    ,t    was    at    the    recurring    thought    of    h 
^  rangeness,  his  moodiness,  his  faiLe  to  rise    o  h, 
TTT  Kr-"'"'*''^    ""'^     ^""d     spirits.       When    1 
of  that  sudden  fluttering  of  his  eyelids  and  the  a  , 

she  could  not  be  .sure,  now,  that  he  had  attempted 
At    ast,  ns,ng  quickly,  she  took  up  her  photog^h  ' 

fnVtw  h  /r^  "■'""  "^'^  ^-^  *'"'"^ht  of  this  even: 
'ng  that  had  been  such  a  perplexing  failure-  and  si,, 
s  ood  smdrng  down,  with  a  pleased  appre  i'ation 
the  camera's  reflection  of  her  pretty  face 


VIII 

Weal's    a'^f  Ms*''  f"'"^,'''"    '"''""'''    ^'«     -'''"^"tic 
Ideals   and    his   natural    instincts;    and    it    Began    . 

week   of  constraint   and   strangeness   in   his   manne 

toward  her;  and  it  ended  by  making  her  fear  th 

n  h?; smlll'tafk'"',^*  ""^  ^''  ""  ''"^'^  '--'" 
n  her  small  talk,  walking  with  her  through  the  melt- 

ng  snows  or  freezing  rains  of  March  in  a  d  preS  ng 

silence  that  was  either  absent-minded  or  worse     She 


THE  DAT-DREAMER 


123 


contrasted  the  stupidity  of  thes-  meetings  with  the 
giilantry  of  his  cousin's  everii.gs,  and  nbp  knew  that 
the  difference  was  not  in  hu-.  And  Oo„  unable  to 
I  respond  to  her  litUe  coquetri  s,  !.eeaus«  J  .  was  elin"'. 
ing  to  the  high  solemnity  uf  ado-.tif.n  which  he 
brought  to  her  from  his  solitary  thoughts,  felt  the 
estrangement  between  them  and  worried  over  it  in  a 
silence  that  increased  her  discouragement. 

AVhen,  at  the  end  of  the  week,  she  found  herself 
with  a  cold  which  kept  her  from  her  lesson,  she  made 
no  effort  to  let  him  know  that  he  would  not  find  her 
eommg  home  at  the  usual  hour.  She  told  herself 
that  If  he  wished  to  break  with  her,  it  would  serve 
as  an  excuse;  and  if  he  did  not,  it  would  bring  him 
to  his  senses.  With  a  young  girl's  cruelty,  she  was 
willing  to  punish  affection  in  order  to  prove  it  •  and 
she  remained  in  the  house,  reading  her  books  and 
practising  her  music,  and  noting  with  a  somewhat 
Ruilty  satisfaction  that  it  was  storming  on  him  out 
of  doors. 

Don  passed  and  repassed  the  gate  of  the  Conserva- 
tory a  dozen  times  in  the  half  hour  that  he  waited 
for  her,  wet  to  the  knees  with  the  cold  slant  of  rain 
that  blew  under  his  umbrella,  chilled  with  loitering 
and  downcast  with  disappointment.  He  returned  to 
Ins  room,  as  miserable  as  if  he  had  missed  his  dinner, 
and  sat  down  in  his  wet  clothes,  wondering  what  had 
happened  to  her,  and  unable  to  get  his  mind  away 
from  the  gap  which  her  absence  had  left  in  his  day 
It  was  not  until  he  had  had  his  supper  and  shut  him- 
self in  with  his  books,  that  he  regained  his  usual 


124  DON-A-DEEAMS 

cheerfulness  in  the  expectation  of  seeing  her  on  fh„ 

morrow;   and   he   went  to   bed   early  to   esca^  tJ 

arrival  of  their  next  meeting  by  sleeping  through  as 
much  as  possible  of  the  interval.  ^ 

Although  he  suffered,  next  dav   witJ,  „  i, 
ing  in  hi.  back  and  his'Ch?^;:?o   nt'e^  t 
earlier  than  usual,  in  the  fear  that  h„         v.?l 
been  late  on  the  Previous  aft™  rLdinTplerer 
-nd  that  pricked  him  as  if  with    iny  needles  of  "o 

unlble  to      Tv    '■''■*''"*^  *'•'**  ^'"^  ■""«*  be  ill  and 
unable  to  send  him  word  hurried  him  home  in  a  panic 
of  anxiety,  resolved  to  call  and  inquire  for  her  th 
night.     By  this  time  his  head  was  aching  wUh  fhe 
fever  of  influenza  and  he  was  half  choked  witTasr 
hroat.     He  gulped   his  supper,   unable   to   taste  T 

the^K-Shor  "*  ^°"^°^  *°  ~P»^  ^^^  - 
Jl  Z^^L  ^   ''"PP'"»  •''^"^   "'Sht'   f«ggy  and   cold 

dt  me  neck.    He  made  a  short  cut  across  the  collet 
campus  through  the  sodden  grass,  and  cam      oh 
Kesidence    wing    like    the    midnight    calleT  for    a 
country  doctor  in  a  matter  of  life  and  death      He 

thT  a'rcf  tV:  ''"""^'^  "'"'^"^  -  he  swung  undt 
the  arch  that  opened  on  the  "quadrangle  "He 
heard  a  shout  of  songs  as  he  sprLg  up  te  staS 


THE  DAY-DREAMER  125 

of  the  "house"  in  which  Conroy  lived;  and  when  he 
-arne  to  his  cousin's  door,  he  knocked  before  he  un- 
derstood that  the  singing  was  in  Conroy 's  room. 

There  was  a  sudden  silence,  inside.  It  was  followed 
by  a  hasty  shuffle.  In  a  moment,  someone  shouted: 
"Come  in!" 

He  opened  the  door  on  a  group  of  students  seated 

at  a  table,   with   pipes  and  cigarettes,   in   the  circle 

of  a  lamp-light  that  was  so  strong  in  their  eyes  they 

could  not  see  him  in  the  shadow.     He  stood  on  the 

threshold.      "Who    is    it?"    Conroy    asked,    peering 

afjainst  the  light. 

''It's— I  want  to  speak  to  you  a  minute,   Con." 

"Oh,  it  's  you!     Come  in  here,  you  monk,  you  old 

hermit!    All  right,  boys."    He  put  back  on  the  table 

an  ale  bottle  which  he  had  hidden  under  his  chair, 

and  the  others  brought  out  their  glasses  from  between 

their  knees  and  their  playing  cards  from  their  pockets. 

"Come  in  here  and  shut  the  door.     Get  us  another 

iilass,  Pittsey.    Come  in  here  and  shut  the  door.    Come 

on.    Come  in  here." 

Don  obeyed  from  mere  irresolution,  and  his  cousin 
welcomed  him  with  a  flushed  hilarity  which  Don,  for 
the  moment,  attributed  to  nervousness.  "Dry  your- 
self at  the  fire.  Bring  another  bottle  of  'pop,'  Pitt- 
sev.    Whose  ante  is  it?" 

bomeone  replied,  contemptuously:  "Give  me  three 
cards.    We  're  all  in  a  week  ago." 

"All  right,"  Conroy  went  on,  unabashed.  "Here 
ffoes.  They  're  off  in  a  bunch.  Hang  your  coat  on 
the  floor,  Don." 


126 


DON-A-DREAMS 


But  Don,  standing  before  the  blaze  in  the  eratc 

rl   %' m'  '"  ''^'  '"""■'  "«^  ^"-'-^  «  -"S  Phot 
«raph   of   AIar,.ar.t    Kiehardson   on   the   manLpie 

Ije    'lor     T   ^""''"t  *'"•'   '"°"°*'^<^'   --^   «<"  a 
mere     proof    ;  h,  remembered  that,  on  the  afternoon 

on  wh,eh  he  had  last  seen  her,  she  had  said  she  e« 

her  photographs  to  eome  home  on  the  following  d 

since  that  time.  He  took  down  the  picture  and  turned  it 

"hi    b  t  'f  '"*'';!  ""  ""''  "^""^"^-^  "March      ,' 
tnen  she  had  not  been  ill 

''Look  out  there,  McLean,"  one  of  the  boys  chatfed 
Gregg  's  trying  to  get  away  with  your  girl  " 

arv    L  7  '^■'"'  ""'•'  "^"""^  Pittsey-a  youth  of  liter- 
ary   pretensions     m    a    dressing    gown-called    out- 

Which  one?    Not  the  prettiest  girl  he  ever  kissed i'' 

Conroy  attempted  to  silence  them  with   a   frantic 
expression  of  face.     They  shouted  gleefully,  scent  nl 
game,  and  prepared  to  pursue  it  with  J  the  b 
barism  natural  to  the  young  collegian. 

"Don't  be  shy  now,  McLean." 

'■A  kiss  and  a  cuddle,  wasn't  it?" 

whi/eM*!">fl*'"*.P''^'  ^^'  P*'"'"  ^''h  ""^  hand 
while  he  hods  the  other.  Give  him  another  pint  of 
pop  and  he  'II  tell  us  all  about  it  again  " 

Don  turned,  horrified.  Conroy  was  trying  to  carry 
an  expression  of  unconscious  innocence,  but  it  broke 
ma  befuddled  and  foolish  smile.  "Oh  shut  up,  you 
clams,"  he  said.    "That  's  not  the  girl  " 

Ih^-  howled.  "See  him  blush!"  "Who  's  a  liar?" 
picture"^""  "''    ^^'''   ^°"    ^'■""^''t    i°    that 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


127 
One  of  the   boys   rose   oratorically.     "Gentlemen 

u«  all.  Either  the  accused  did  or  did  not  kiss  the 
ady.  If  he  d.d  not,  then  he  is  guilty  of  slander, 
h}^  witness,  breach  of  truth  and  attempte<l  oscular 
.mbezzleinent  and  he  owes  us  and  the  photograph  an 
apology.  (In  vain  Conroy  tried  to  stop  him  ) 
His  present  mai.i..er  is  the  demeanor  of  guilt  I 
move  that  if  he  did  not  kiss  said  maiden  lady,  h;  be 
compelled  to  go  down  on  his  knees  before  the  c;unter. 
ie.t   presentment    thereof   and    sing   the   Doxology  " 

aught  him  before  he  was  free  of  his  chair  and  forced 
h.m  down  in  it  and  held  him  there.     "Oh    sav    fel 
lows,     he  pleaded,  "don't  be  a  lot  of  d-"- 

The  others  closed  in  on  him,  laughing  like  a  circle 
ot  savages  about  a  torture.  It  was  evident  from  their 
manner  that  while  they  accepted  Conroy's  hospitality 
they  were  accustomed  to  make  him  the  butt  of  their 
sport.       Guilty  or  not  guilty?" 

■'None  of  your  business,"  he  gasped 

tJl  7"'4™'«<^'J  ^i^  ^«i««-    "The  prisoner  refuses 
to  plead.     This  is  a  case  for  the  thirty-third  degree 

kindvL  T*""u''    *"   ^'■'''""•^"-      Will    someone 

kmdly  bring  a  hair-brush.    Remove  the  prisoner's-" 

Conroy  screamed  "Not  guilty!" 

Then  to  an  accompaniment  of  uproarious  laughter 
and  m  a  confusion  of  voices  and  above  a  continual 
.uffling^and    crowding   for   place,    the    examinat'  n 

said  maid^i  r  '""  ""*'  ''"  ''''  ^'""^  ^^'  ^'''-- 


128 


DON-A-DREAMS 


"Yes." 
"Where?" 
"Oh,  go  to  grass." 
"On  the  ear?" 

"On  the  eye?" 

"No." 

"On  the  mouth?" 

tnn?r  T  "°  ""''"*'■•     ^""'her  attack  on  his  but 
tons  brought  out  a  frantic  "Yes'" 

The  orator  reached  a  "mortar-board"  and  nut  it 

and  without'r"°"7  ■"  ''°'''''*"'-    He  has  insolentl 
ana  without  warrant  impugned  the  veracity  of  thi; 

S  to  tte  ''^'^.  ""'^'""^'^  *"  ^^  ^^-^^ '™- 

down  ^  V  ."•""^'''P'^'"^  ^-^J  there  compelled  to  ,o 
e    lipT  ^i   thT.  T'  'T""*  -^  "haste  salute  up™ 

D~     PH  ^'   photograph    in    our    u„it«l 

ZTX       y^T'  ^'"'  ^"'  ^"''l  **»«  photograph." 

had^on^wfthlr^'^  "-'  '''-''--''  -^^-'^' 

U>e    mddt  T?'"  •'^"  """  '^"^'^  ^''^  "-"'  "f 

R  ha^dl  L  7.°''  *'■''""'■  "^^^«y  I-r«  Ms. 
nienarclson  m?  I  have  something-a  message  T  ivi.i, 
to  give  her-if  she  's  not  too  ill  "  ^    ^  ''"'' 

The  maid  held  the  door  open.    "She  's  not  so  sick 
"on't  you  come  in?" 


129 
I'm 


THE  DAY-DRDAMEB 
lie  entered  the  vestibule.    "No.    I  can't  wait. 

""'  wet.     I  '11  stay  here.     Tell  her  Grepg-" 
She  caught  the  suppressed  excitement  of  his  manner 

and  hurned  away  witho-.t  closing  the  door,  alarmed 

i  ltd.""'"'  "'  ""^'  "^^  "^^'^  '°'  *^^  «'^1.  whom 

hul  trlirff''  '*""""  "*  "  "°^  ^*'-^""»  "^  w«t«r  that 
had  trickled  fron,  some  wet  umbrellas  in  the  rack  and 

.tTlirt  of    :"'"■'""  '"  '  '"'"'  "^  ''"'  -  blood  und" 
th,   iKht  of  the  crmison  gas-globe  overhead. 

Why!— Won't  you  come  in?" 
He  lo.,ked  up   at  her  slowly  and  .shook  his  hea.l. 
tnre  ''  '"jT  "H''.;"''^  ^^""-y-     They  had   this  pic 
to.  of  it-"  ""'  """"^'     '"'''''y  ^^^"-^  ■»«!<*"« 

"I  don't  .  .  .  understand." 

Ilis  face  was  drawn  in  a  white  mask  that  showed 
Ik.'  a  grotesque  m  the  orin>so„  light.     His  eyes  were 
^'l.ttenng.     He  asked  hoarsely:  "Did  he?" 
"Did  he  wiiat?" 
"Did  he     .  .  kiss  you?" 

She  turned  over  the  photograph.     Then  .she  looked 
up  with  a  nervous  .smile  that  was  a  faint  attemot  t 
-turn  the  whole  matter  to  the  frivolous  1  ght  twhich 
.she  had  seen  .t.    "Well,  he-I  could  n't  help  it     He- 
We  were  ...  cutting  up." 

thoXrnToor."''""'  ""'•''"*  '  ^o^"  ^^'  ^'^^^'^  «"* 
"Wait!"  she  said  .sharply.  "I  jon't  understand- 
^Miy  do  you  come  here  with—" 


130 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


He  answered,  without  lifting  his  head:  "He  wag 
boasting  of  it  to  a  lot  of  boys.  I  didn't  believe  it. 
I  didn't  believe  you  would— do  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Well!"  she  cried  defiantly.  "You  tried  to  do  it 
too!" 

"Yes,"  he  said.    "I  tried  to  do  it  too.    Good-bye." 

She  followed  him  out  to  the  darkness  of  the  porch 

impetuously,  and  caught  him  by  the  sleeve.  "Wait," 

she  said.     "You  can't-I  won't  have  you  come  here 

like  this.    What  is  it?    How  dare  you.  .  .accuse  me'' 

He  was  so  overwhelmed  with  the  shame  of  that 
scene  in  Conroy's  room  that  he  could  not  argue  with 
her,  he  could  not  look  at  her.  He  said,  in  a  low, 
stifled  voice:  "You  shouldn't  have  done  it.  I  didn't 
think  you-They  made  fun  of  you.  He  was  boasting 
of  It."  He  shuddered  with  cold  and  sickness  and 
misery.    "I  thought  you  were— above  that." 

She  flung  his  arm  from  her.  "Go  away!"  she 
choked.  "Go  away!  I  'U  never  see  you-I  '11  never 
speak  to  you  again."  He  went  down  the  steps.  She 
slammed  the  door  on  him.  He  walked  home,  stiffly 
erect,  through  a  cold  rain  that  pelted  him  with  deri- 
sion and  the  downfall  of  his  ideals. 

It  was  to  him  as  bitter  a  disenchantment  as  personal 
grossness  and  infidelity  and  an  open  scandal  would 
have  been  to  an  older  man.  He  returned  to  the  dese- 
crated solitude  of  his  room -the  room  that  had  been 
the  sanctuary  of  his  worship— like  a  priest  to  a 
wrecked  and  empty  altar.  Without  lighting  his 
lamp,  he  threw  himself  on  his  bed  in  his  clothes,  shak- 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


131 


m  with  chills  and  fever,  the  pulse  beating  in  his  ears, 
Ins  brain  swimming,  his  mind  nii-ib  with  exhaustion 
aud  staggering  in  the  whirl  of  delirium. 

There  was  the  small  trickle  of  blood  forming  in  a 
p<«l  on  the  linoleum  of  th  •  vi'siibule  floor,  and  he 
"ilared  at   it   dully,   wonderin-    what   she   would   say 
when  he  told  her  that  he  had  killed  his  cousin, 
lli-s  father,  on  the  bench,  put  on  a  black  "mortar- 
lioard"    solemnly    and    having    condemned    him    to 
death,  borrowed  a  match  from  the  grinning  jury  and 
struck  a  light  for  his  pipe.     .    .    Prom  the  barred  win- 
dow  of  his  prison,  he  saw  his  mother  in  her  invalid 
-■hair,  with  little  Mary  in  her  arms  and  Frankie  at 
hw  side,  going  to  the  execution,  his  father  wheeling 
her,  a  picnic  basket  at  her  feet;  and  she  looked  up 
at  him  with  a  face  of  grief  that  set  him  screaming 
and  sobbing  frantically  and  beating  on  the  floor  with 
his  fists.     Someone  knocked  on  the  door  of  his  cell, 
and  called   "Bonnie?  Donnie?"     in  Nannie's  voice' 
There  was  a  light  in  the  doorway.    He  sat  up  in  bed 
and  saw  Mrs.   Stewart,   his   boarding-house   mistress, 
with  a  lamp  in  her  hand,  all  in  white,  a  shawl  over 
her  shoulders,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.     He 
said  weakly,  "I  'm  sick." 

The  rest  was  a  hurry  of  women  in  the  room-some- 
one  taking  off  his  shoes,  a  steaming  glass  at  his  lips, 
a  mustard  plaster  on  his  ehest-aud  in  the  wan  light 
"f  the  morning  a  man  with  a  black  beard  saying: 
"Nothing  much  yet.  A  touch  of  pneumonia  perhaps 
Bring  me  a  glass  of  water.  .  .  One  of  these  every 
half  hour  for  the  next  four  hours.    Two  of  the  others 


132 


DON'-A-DREAMS 


every  hour  until  furth.'r  onlors. 
cipally.  lit.  'II  be  nil  right." 


La  grippe  priii- 


IS 

Hk  lay,  f„r  the  next   few  days,  .lose.l  with  quinine 
an.l  aconit,.,  hm  ears   rinKing.   his  eyes  two  balls  of 

pa.n   m  h,s  hea.l,   his   bo.ly  so  sore  that  he  tur. 

hunself  m  be!  as  carefully  as  a  man  just  relens,,! 
from  the  rack.  An<l  every  achinR  minute  of  thou-ht 
macle  the  situation  clearer  to  him.  lie  had  lost  l^n 
and  he  had  lost  her  to  Conroy.  She  had  never  be,,,' 
more  than  fr.endi,.  .  the  last  week  had  been  n.arke.l 
by  a  ,-row.n«  in.nfference,  she  had  avoided  hi.n. 
inally,  when  he  wnt  to  n.eet  her;  and  she  had  receivrd 
Conroy  had  ,-iven  him  her  photograph,  had  allowcl 
mn  to  kiss  her,  and  had  turned  an.^rily  on  Mm  when 

^\hat  nsht  had  he  to  accuse  her!     She  would  never 
speak  to  him,  she  would  never  see  him,  again 

Ihe  pang  of  it  was  not  the  "pang  of  disprize.l 
love  ;  he  had  always  known  that  she  did  not  prize 
h>s  clumsy  devotion.  And  it  was  not  the  sting  of 
wounded  vanity-which  is  so  large  a  portion  of  a 
rejected  lover  s  smart-for  Don  w7.s  neither  an  egotist 
nor  a  senfmentalist.  It  was  the  pain  of  a  boyish  de- 
sp  .r,  of  a  lost  uleal   of  a  wrecked  hope,  of  a  maimcl 

and   regret     He   knew   that  he  could   never  recover 
from  the  loss  of  her;  he  would  bear  the  scar  of  it 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


133 


tn  his  lonely  (iruvo.     Hv  was  too  old  to  take  root  in 
a  HOW  affection.     Yes,  he  was  almost  twenty,  now.    It 
was  too  late,    lie  was  a  failuri.'  and  a  castaway  in  life. 
»y  the  time  he  was  convalescent,  he  was  also  rc- 
sit'ned,  thouKh  he  gat  in  his  room  like  a  life-prisoner 
ill  his  cell.    The  familiar  walls,  in  their  faded  paper 
sireaked  with  the  leak  of  rains,  shut  out  the  world 
tliiit  had  persecuted  him.    He  would  study  here,  happy 
aiiionij  his  books:  he  would  become  a  university  pro- 
fessor, devote  his  life  to  learnintr,  and  be  safe  behind 
t'rey-stone  walls  covered  with  ivy.     One  nmin  would 
suffice    for   him— even   a    room    like   this,    though    it 
should  have  a  study  chair  and  a  desk  like  his  father's 
and  a  student's  eoueh,  instead  of  this  old  oval  parlor 
table,  this  dining-room  chair  upholstered  in  imitation 
leather   and    sagginR    in    the   seat,    and    this   yellow, 
tioardinp-house   bed,   machine-carved,   with   a   varnish 
sealded   to   a   milky   white   where   the   cleanly   house- 
keeper had  used  boiling  water  on  it.    He  would  never 
1)0  happy  again,  but  he  would  be  ([uict  and  contented. 
It  was  in  this  mood  that  he  received  Conroy— sitting 
ivith  a  black  bandage  over  his  eyes,  for  the  influenza 
had  weakened  them  and  he  was  not  allowed  to  use 
them  yet.    And  Conroy,  guiltily  silent  about  the  scene 
m  the  room  at  Residence,  did  not  tell  him  that  Mar- 
Karet  had  refused  to  see  him,  too,  as  a  result  of  that 
incident;  he  contented  himself  with  awkward  iniiui- 
ries  about  Don's  departing  pains,  and  left  a  bag  of 
oranges  as  a  peace  offering  when  he  went. 

Don  ate  them  stolidly.  He  had  seen  enough  in  his 
cousin's  room  to  understand  that  Conroy  was  wasting 
himself  in  dissipations,  and  doing  it  with  that  ridic- 


134 


DON-A-DBBAMS 


ulou,  bravado  „f  college  boy.  who  take  to  canls  „„,i 
bjjer  b,,ttl..  a,  a  Hoh.K,lboy  take,  to  tobacco.    Bu,  „ 
all.  that  waa  a  part  of  the  life  which  Conro;  l,„, 
cho«,n,  and  it  was  his  own  affair.    He  could  fl/ht  hi 
own  ba ttlea.    He  had  her  to  help  him  nowl      *        ' 
Well,  my  young  man,"  the  doctor  said,  "I  an, 

[7,7  r,"  •""'"•  '''"''•'  "■"^■•'  exereiae  with  ™ 
and  IcHH  booka.  You  Ve  not  within  fifteen  pound,  „ 
your  pr„p.,r  weight,  and  if  I  "m  called  in  here  «t„ 
I  II  send  you  home  to  your  parents.  The  day  af„. 
^morrow,  ,  ,t  'a  bright,  you  may  go  out  of  doo  "l 
and  stay  out"  He  took  Don  by  the  shoulder,  .„„, 
shook  h,m  playfully.  "The  man  who  built  this  rol 
^■dnt  suppose  anyon..  would  be  fool  enough  to  try 
to  live  m  It,  do  you  understand?"  ^ 

Don  laughed. 

G«id^bye.''^  ''''"'  '^™  *"'*''"■  ^''"'  ""'"''  ""'^  ""^  "'^'' 

He  passed  through  the  doorway  and  out  of  D,,,,'. 
life,  as  doctors  do. 

She  did  not  write.  When  he  went  out,  he  did  „,„ 

try  to  meet  her.     He  returned  to  his  old  round  ,, 

venT™   "^'■•"•^«*»d'««'    «°'itary    walks    and    lon.lv 

Doer^th  ""''^••''"'^d,  in  his  volume  of  Emerson's 

poems,  the  verse: 

"Though  thou  loved  her  as  thyself, 
As  a  self  of  purer  clay, 
Though  her  parting  dims  the  day, 
Stealing  grace  from  all  alive, 
Heartily  know 
When  half-gods  go. 
The  gods  arrive. ' ' 


THE  DAY-DREAMER  ia5 

'ViTii  a  rcibiistnaM  of  spirit  which  had  once  charmoit 
Ills  cousin  in  their  younKPr  days,  he  set  his  fni-f  to  u 
new  future  and  a  new  ideal.  She  had  been  but  a  "half- 
trod"  after  all.  Perhaps  some  day,  when  he  was  rich 
in  ucadeniic  honors  and  professorial ly  wise,  he  would 
meet  such  a  woman  as  he  had  thought  her  to  be— a 
woman  tall  and  dark  and  pale  whose  smile  wo.dd  al- 
ways be  somewhat  melaneholy  and  who  would  see  life 
as  the  mystery  which  it  was  to  him.  Jleanwhile,  the 
.vear's  examinations  were  approaching,  and  he  knew 
that  he  was  not  prepared  to  meet  them.  He  drank  his 
bitter  tonic  and  studied  doKgedly. 

He  met  Conroy  in  the  corridors  as  often  as  ever,  and 
saw  that  the  young  (tentleman's  eyes  were  frecjuently 
bloodshot,  his  color  bad  and  his  manner  nervous.  Coni- 
iiii;  out  of  the  college  grounds,  one  April  morning, 
he  saw  Margaret  approaching  him  at  a  distance,  slowly, 
and  he  turned  back,  wincing,  and  crossed  the  campus 
to  another  gate.  He  took  a  volume  of  Emerson  on  his 
walks,  and  read  under  the  pines,  on  the  side  of  one 
of  those  northeastern  ravines  which  the  heavy  snows 
had  made  impassable  to  him  since  the  early  winter. 
And  lying  on  his  back  under  the  branches,  he  shut 
his  eyes  on  the  light  and  projected  himself  upward 
past  the  sun  and  the  stars  and  the  entire  universe  as 
he  conceived  it,  till  these  were  all  flying  far  below 
him,  like  a  cloud  of  glittering  insects,  in  an  unceasing 
iind  meaningless  whirl;  and  then  he  turned  himself 
iiiound  suddenly  on  the  void  of  space,  and  tried  to 
imagine  where  all  these  tiny  creatures  had  flown  from, 
whore  they  would  alight,  from  what  eggs  they  had 


DON-A-DREAMS 


136 

almost  physical  fear  of  dropping  asffirt^^'  "" 
ot  a  nightmare    into   t»,;=        /'  ^  ""^  darkness 

the  mids't  of  which  ho  lived"?,  r""*^  '"'''"'^  '" 
on  the  sunlight  with  V Irl  V.  /  T".''  ""  "^"^ 
perspiration,  taking  hisblL;    •''T^^'^  ^'''*  ^•'"' 

i-o  the  shuiir^^rLrr  ut^^^^^^^^  ^- 

?ook  othi'stin  t;"'  ^°rr^  ''^""'  -^°  '^^  -". 
^on^rofs::?---.— W 

I  've  been  put  out  of  Residence  " 

on°h-    Tout  "iS^'td't!;"  '^'"''  *°  ^^*  *"«  "«'>^ 
shadow  down  lerlir  g    :"  ^""f^ /"pped  tl,e 

hiade  h  k  ,„  xSstTht  srf  rs  "■'■ 

birthday-wrth\„lVoTthetl:te"""t'''"^'^^'-^ 

told  hiffi  he  was   ton  "  hi  v.  ""f  7*'"'  '°™1^-'    And  I 

was,  too,     he  boasted,  "and  if  he  'd  said 


THE  DAY-DREAMER  137 

much  more  I  'd  Ve  run  him  out  of  the  room.  You  'd 
t hmk  we  were  a  lot  of  girls  in  a  boarding-school, 
What  harm  is  there  in  a  game  of  cards?" 

"You   're  not  supposed  to  bring  .  .  .  liquor  into 
Residence,  are  you?" 

''And  that  's  another  thing!  We  're  old  enough 
0  ake  care  of  ourselves,  and  we  Ve  as  much  rigL 
to  d  ink  what  we  like  as  he  has.  A  bottle  of  champajie 
IS  n't  going  to  kill  us."  "fofeue 

ol'ihlngr"'  ^""^  ^*'"  ^°^^  ^°°  ""'"'^  "*  *'">*  «"t 

"What  sort  of  thing?" 

"Beer,  champagne,  'pop'  generally  " 

Conroy  stood  up.  "I  did  n't  come  here  to  be  lee 
ured  by  you,  either.  If  yo„  don't  want  me  here,  ay 
sn.    Thereareplenty  of  other  rooms." 

"Well."  Don  put  down  his  knife.  "You  're  old 
enough  to  know  what  you   're  doing.     I  've  said  all 

.ntend  jo  say  about  it  ...  „  ^  sleep  wUh  m 

nntrn'^'v''',!!''   ^^'^^  ^^^'^   «"»^"y'   holding   an 
ankle  on  his  knee  and  frowning  at  the  floor 

Don  asked:  "What  will  your  father  say?" 
He  need  n't  know-unless  you  tell  him  " 

Don  passed  the  insult  unanswered;  he  was  thinking 
of   Margaret.      Conroy    added    unexpectedly    "You 
were  quick  enough  to  tell  her.  " 
^  JYes.  .  .     You  need  n't  be  afraid.     I   'H  not  tell 

"A  lot  I  care  whether  you  do  or  not." 


"8  DON-A-DRBAMS 

Don  took  the  eyeshade  which  he  had  been  wearin. 
a    work  smee  his  illness,  and  put  it  on;  it  cove    , I 

!:L''^f, '"^^*''^  P^"''  «'  «  ««P  drawn  down  over  hi 
eyes.      'I  only  told  her  because  I  did  n't  believe  i 

Lbl^^'.Sf'^'  ''  -"^  *™^'  '  «'>-'''  -'^  »>- 

of'SrtTnot^ilr"'"^'^"'^""^"^^'"' 

"That  's  aU  the  thanks  I  got  for  it.  .  .    Where   s 

your  stuff?"  vvnere   s 

"In  my  rooms." 
th27^T'  '^"''  ^•"^"'^  perfunctorily  about  moving 
SwaS  btTv,  r'"'  *"'■  ""•«°g™«"t«  with  M,.s 
the  thanks  he  had  received  for  his  interference  in 
tJl  fr  f  l^'  photograph,  stuck  in  Conroy" 
thought;  and  when  they  were  undressing  for  bedT 

Sr.'.'m  "7.  '™°'^'^  '^'^''^^'  '^  -"^ed  -  - 

aenly:     When  did  you  see  her  last?" 
Don  replied:  "I  have  n't  seen  her  at  all  " 

Since  when?" 
"Since  that  night-with  the  photograph  " 
After  a  silence,  Conroy  said:  "I  met  her  on  tl,. 
street  while  you  were  sick,  and  told  her  what  was 
matter  with  you.    I  think  she  asked  because  she  w 
wondering  why  you  had  n't  been  around  to  call." 
Well,  you  were  mistaken." 

lecturt'"'"''^  ""'  ''^'''°'  "  '"^  ^''^  ««°-«t  «  Public. 

Don  said,  to  end  the  discussion:  "She  told  me  thnf 
night,  that  she  'd  never  speak  to  me  again  "      ' 

Conroy  laughed.  "Oh,  I  know.  She  told  m«  that.  too. 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


139 


Sh('  sot  over  her  'mad'  three  weeks  ago.    You  ought 
to  go  and  look  her  up." 

Don  blew  out  the  lamp,  abruptly,  without  replying, 
and  came  slowly  to  bed  where  he  lay  silent  with  his 
thoughts. 

But  Conroy,  moved  to  confidences  in  the  dark,  like 
a  schoolgirl  in  bed  with  her  room-mate,  began  to  con- 
fess himself  to  his  cousin  with  a  sort  of  tentative  frank- 
ness that  seemed  always  on  the  point  of  ending  in 
the  silences  which  interrupted  it,  but  which  broke  out 
afresh   after  every  pause.     And  behind  the   halting 
sentences,  Don  could  see  how  the  son  of  the  merchant, 
come  among  these  "sports"  whom  he  admired  and 
tried  to  imitate,  had  never  been  accepted  by  them, 
because   of  the   home  training  which   had   left   him 
ignorant  of  wines  and  theatres  and  low  talk  of  women ; 
how  he  had  toadied  to  them  and  spent  his  money  on 
them,  and  they  had  despised  him  for  it;  how  he  had 
brought  liquor  to  his  rooms  for  them,  and  helped  to 
drink  it  in  a  mean  ambition  to  prove  himself  as  much 
a  man  of  the  world  as  any  of  them ;  how  he  had  even 
made  his  boast  about  the  photograph  with  the  same 
aim,  and  how  they  nad  gleefully  betrayed  him  to  his 
eousin  as  soon  as  they  saw  that  the  betrayal  would 
humiliate  him.     "They   're  a  lot  of  cads,  Don— that 
gang.    You  should  hear  them  talk  about  the  girls  they 
know.     And  they  sponge  on  you  for  everything,  and 
try  to  get  you  drunk.    And  when  you  get  into  trouble 
they  won't  stand  by  you.    Pittsey  was  the  best  of  the 
whole  crowd,  and  he  had  n't  a  good  word  to  say  for 
any  of  them." 
Dton  listened  with  a  divided  mind,  trying  to  repress 


140 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


the  stirring  of  a  hope  which  would  not  be  still  sHp 

had  quarrelled  with  Conroy,  too,  about  the  photograph 
She  had  been  asking  Conroy  about  him.  She  hal  bf™ 
thmk,„g  of  h,m  all  these  weeks,  and  expecting  to  s 

mg  when  he  had  turned  back  from  her  at  the  college 
gate^  .  He  said  to  Conroy,  smiling  absent-mindedly 
m  the  darkness:  "You  're  well  nnt  „t  t^  • 

IT  ti,„  r.         .  ,  ""'■  "^  tno^'c  anyway 

If  Jhe  Dean  does  n't  write  home  about  it-" 

No,  he  '11  not  do  that.    He  said  he  would  n't     He 
said  he  thought  I  should  leave  Residence,  but  that" 
one  need  know  why.    He  talked  a  lot  of  ^unky  cant- 
about  domg  ,t  for  my  own  good.     He  's  a  snivelling 
codfish  anyway.     All  the  boys  loathe- him."  ' 

Well    we    d  better  get  a  sleep  now.     Good-night." 
He  wa^lf    ;.••  '    "  '"'  """^^  ""••  J'™  --^  day." 
fpen-;:d  """"  ""'*'*■  ^""^^  "*  ^^-^  blackne., 


s'!^n.hft«t'f   'T  """''''   '"  «  «"dden  heat  of 
sunlight  that  steamed  the  snow  off  the  hillsides  an,l 
warmcl  the  moist  air  to  the  temperature  of  a  h  thous 
Iho  grass  had  greened  as  if  it  were  in  a  forcing-bed 

i  usll'ni:  VT?"'  '"^'''^'^  '^'  budded  LS: 

"ng  oi  ihe  L  K   """'  ""*  "'•■'^'"^  «°d  flatter- 

Dfe  on  the  lawns,  m  busy  possession  of  a  world  which 
they  had  seized  and  settled  overnight.    And  on  a  ra 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


141 


diant  holiday  afternoon,  Don  walked  with  her  nlons 
the  road  that  dipped  into  his  valley  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  town,  as  happy  as  if  he  were  bringing  her  to 
a  new  Eden. 

They  had   escaped   from   the   cramped   seats  of   a 
crowded  trolley-ear,  and  they  came  to  freedom  down 
the  middle  of  the  water-rntted  steep   road   between 
Kuardian  poplar  trees,  at  a  pace  that  set  the  loose 
stones  rolling  under  their  feet.     It  brought  back  to 
Irt  cheeks  a  color  that  the  winter  had  blanched  from 
them,  and  to  her  eyes  a  sparkle  of  mischief  that  had 
been  lacking  to  ihe  more  timid,  grave  regard  with 
which  she  had  met  him  since  their  quarrel.     She  ran 
to  a  boulder  that  had  been  bared  by  the  rains,  at  the 
road-side,  and  sprang  up  on  it;  and  leaning  against 
the  wind,  she  drank  in  the  air  and  the  distance  with 
deep  breaths  and  a  long  gazing,  poised  on  her  little 
fa-t  with  her  arms  as  if  floating  out  beside  her,  her 
skirts  blown,  her  ribbons  fluttering  in  her  hat;  and 
he  watched  her,  holding  his  breath  on  a  smile,  as  :" 
she  were  a  bird  which  he  was  afraid  was  about  to  fly 
away.     "Is  n't  it  lovely \"    she  thrilled.     "The  trees 
-so  green!     Look  at  the  shadows  of  the  clouds  on 
the    hill    there!     Oh!"      She    clasped    her    hands. 
•  Where  are  we  going?" 

He   laughed,   guarding  the   small   secret.     "Down 
there— around  the  turn  in  the  valley- where  we  can 
look  over  the  river." 
"Is  it  as  pretty  as  this?" 

"Prettier.     It   's  never  been  farmed,  the  sides  are 
too  steep." 


^*2  DON-A-DBEAMS 

'^orirZ,:*«-<^°^- «-<'-•' Places," 

"Alone?" 
"Yes." 

She  reached  for  his  arm  to  help  her  down.    "Why 
n re  you  always  aloue?"  ^ 

"What  did  you  think  of  her?"     fSho  ™™„    i.      , 
Miss  Kimball's  "Mr.  Chopin  •')         ^         '^"■^"'bered 

"Ididn'tthinkof  herat  all  " 
She  said.  I  d  love  to  roll  down  this  hill,  would  n't 
''L*et  W"''"''°*  ""  "  looks-under  the  grass." 
slonp'  "T^'  ^'"  '^''^'  ^""y  ^''d  started  down  the 
at  once  she  would  be  unable  to  cheek  "rinn'fi" 
he  cried.  "Not  so  fast!"-and  tried  1:  hold  h^r  ba^k 
She  tnpped  and  almost  fell  over  a  rock.    He  caught 


THE  DAY-DBBAMEB 


143 

at  a  bush,  and  jerked  her  to  her  feet,  and  swingin,. 

er  at  arm's    ength  he  brought  her  around  towarl 

hHu  as  they  shpped,  held  her  until  the  bush  bX 

-au,ht  another,  and  stopped  her  breathless  and  frSt-' 

.ned  on  the  edge  of  a  sudden  steepness,  with  h  s  arm 

Sl^Lfr """« '°  ''^'  ^-^^^<^  -^  <^ 

"You  might  have  hurt  yourself  " 
"Oh  dear!    Let  me-sit  down.     I_" 
He  let  her  down,  kneeling  beside  her     <?»,»  „„f  .. 
ha._up  from  her  forehead  an'd  strathtnedt  pCi^;' 

"Are  you  all  right?" 

She  leaned  back  against  his  support.    "I_I  wanted 

was  1!       He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  against 
"What  have  you  do«e/"     she  cried.     There  was 

^2'l  ■•  »«thmg.  .  .  I  ,Uh  i,  «„_,uffOu.g-fc, 

"Don!" 

He  looked  away  quickly  to  hide  the  loosening  which 
he  felt  m  h.s  lips,  the  moisture  in  his  eyes.  She  took 
out  her  handkerchief,  and  wiped  his  fingers  sUentW 

••.i^^u'vi'LKe."'^""  '-'■    ^-  '-  -^- 
He  raised  her  hand,  smeared  with  the  blood  of  his, 


144 


DONA-DREAMS 


and   kissed  it  like  a  knight.     It  went  tense  at  th, 

touch  of  his  lips.    "Oh,  Don!"    she  whispered,  droop. 

mff.    "Don  1"— and  in  another  voice,  quickly:  "Don' 

Someone  will  see  us!" 
lie  released  her.     They  returned  to  the  road  nn,l 

went  on  down  the  hill,  side  by  side,  in  the  stann- 
sunhfiht,  as  silei  ,  as  nervons-and  he  as  pale  an.l 
as  bewilderedly  happy-as  if  they  were  a  newly-mar 
ried  couple  coming  down  the  aisle  of  the  church  from 
the  altar  railing. 

He  made  her  comfortable  under  his  pine,  in  a  littlo 
nook  of  budded  underbrush  on  the  side  of  a  hill  over 
looking  the  river;  and  he  sat  below  her,  turnc.l  sn 
as  to  look  up  at  her  with  the  glowing  face  of  a  sliv 
young  passion.  She  had  taken  off  her  hat,  and  sh'.' 
leaned  back  against  the  tree,  flushed  and  smiling  nn,l 
holdmg  him  with  a  deep  gaze  that  twinkled  and  .soft- 
ened and  beamed  on  him.  They  were  rediscoveriii' 
their  past;  it  had  become  a  new  wonder  to  them,  since 
It  had  led  them  to  this.  "Do  you  remember  the  littlo 
place  we  had  in  Coulton?-beside  the  stream?"  she 
said.  "Do  you  remember  the  day  I  found  you  there! 
—and  you  called  me  'Miss  Margaret'?" 

"May  I-again?    You've  always  been  'Miss  Mnr- 
garet'." 

"Havel!    Of  course.    Do  you  like  it?" 
Yes."    He  fondled  the  name  with  his  voice-  "Miss 
Margaret ! ' ' 
"What  am  I  to  call  you?" 
"I  don't  know.    You  called  me 'Don.' " 


THE  DAY-DREAMER  145 

"But  everyone  calls  you  that.     I  want  a  name  of 
my  own,  too."  "' 

"It  does  n't  sound  the  same-when  you  say  it." 
How  do  I  say  It?"     She  tried  it  in  varvin.,  in 
flections:  "Don?    Don.    Donl"  * 

;;it '8  your  voice.    It's  so-"    He  gulped. 
Why,  I  have  n  t  a  pretty  voice,  do  you  think?" 
I  can  hear  ,t  when  I  'm  alone.    I  can  see  you  any 
lime,  by  just  closing  my  eyes  "  ^ 

■'Really!    Try  it  now.     Close  them." 
No       He  shook  his  head,  his  eyes  fastened  on  her 
hungnly.     "I  want  to  see  you  really.     I  shTu   be 
alone  again  soon  enough."- 
"Why-why  are  you  so  much  alone?" 
Because  I  can  .  .  .  think  of  you  " 

I-You-''-''"  "^'^  ""■°*'"^-    "^''"  °""*  °'t  do  It. 

"After  yon  went  away  from  Coulton,  I  was  so  lonelv 

I  used  to  go  to  the  ravine  to  meet  you  and-and  hei 

.he'^time"'"  "'^««' "/-  ^^  -me,  I  had  yoj  a"i 
the  t  me.       She  reached  out  her  hand  on  the  warm 

""sh^r."'  1*^'  '"''  ""'  '"^  '*  ■"  both  his  "n™ 
I  shall  have  this  to  remember-the  softness  " 

him  <''Tf  ?/""■'"•  '^'  P''^'"''"'^'  '"''"^^"e  down  to 
mm.       It  I  disappoint  you!     If  I_" 

anf  dS*^  "iJv  ••"■  ''°^"'''  ^"'''^■"^  them  whiten 
and  dimple.  "You  never  will  again  I  know  vn,, 
now.    You  never  will."  1  know  you 

"But  when  I  go  away?" 

"You  'U  come  back." 

She  caught  his  wrist  and  shook  it.  as  if  to  wake 


146  DON-A-DREAMS 

?f  ■J'/T.^t'  ""'""*'  <"'rtainty  of  happinew..  "Bat 
.f  I  don't?  If  I  so  to  New  York  J  Mother  has  written 
me  that  she  wants  me  to  spend  the  winter  in  New  York 
studyinR."  "' 

';Well    I  '11  go  too."    He  laughed,  confidently 

To  New  York  f    What  will  you  do  there  f ' ' 
He  did  not  know.     He  would  find  something     If 
«he  went  abroad-to  Germany-he  would  wait  for  her 
tP  come  back.     "It    's  all  right,"  he  said.     "Don't 
worry.    I  know.    I  can  wait." 

She  leaned  back  against  her  tree  again,  gazing  out 
over  the  river  at  the  far  shore,  as  if  it  were  the  un- 
cer tarn  future  in  which  he  put  such  trust.  When 
he  looked  at  her,  he  saw  the  troubled  wrinkle  of  her 
forehead,  and  he  said:  "Don't-don't  think  of  it  that 
way.  Go  wherever  you  like.  I  can  wait.  I  '11  be 
busy  preparing  for  you-until  you  come  back." 

She  sa.d,  in  a  shaken  voice:  "We  're  so  young 
It  II  be  years  before  we  can  be  together,  really  It 
I  meet  someone  else  .  .  .  and  don't  .  .  .  come  back."" 

You  always  have.  You  always  will.  If  you  don't, 
I  11  know  It  s  because  he  is-better.  It  will  alwavs 
be  the  same-with  me-now,  whether  you  come  or  not. 
1    II  always  think  of  you  the  same." 

She  could  not  speak,  except  through  the  pressure 
of  her  fingers.  He  answered  it  with  the  trust  of  hi. 
eyes.       You  '11  not  worry  about  it?" 

She  shook  her  ;  -d,  blinded.  "I  11  try "  she 
promised,  chokingly.  "I  'n  try  to  come  back-always 
—for  always." 

He  held  her  hand  against  his  cheek.  "Thanks" 
he  whispered,  in  a  speechless  gratitude. 


THE  DAY-DREAMER  147 

That  day  wan  to  remain  with  him,  in  living  memory, 
as  a  joy  that  was  not  to  be  forgotten  unless  he  forgot 
his  own   identity.     It   was   to  become  as  essentially 
a  part  of  him  as  the  memory  of  a  vision  might  be  part 
ijf  the  life  and  religion  of  a  saint.    The  view  of  the 
river  shining  among  the   branches,  the   fallen   trees 
in   the   underbrush,   the  yellow   sunlight,    the   green 
shadows,   her   face  against   the   brown   trunk  of  the 
trw>,  the  warm  surrender  of  her  hand-the  memory 
of  these  was  to  be  about  him  in  his  future  like  thoughts 
"f  home  in  exile.    They  were  to  give  to  all  women  a  sub- 
tle <iuality  of  wood-enchantment,  as  if  they  reminded 
him  of  nymphs  and  graces  known  in  some  forgotten,  far- 
off  golden  land.    And  they  were  to  make  the  smallest 
patch  of  grass  and  trees  poetical  to  him,  love-haunted 
at  once  heart-gladdening  and  full  of  painful  longing^ 
-even  though  it  were  only  a  green  square  in  a  great 
city,  noisy  with  traffic  and  shabby  with  the  dust  from 
the  worn  pavements  of  thronged  streets. 

And  as  if  he  were  conscious  of  the  momentous  in- 
fluence of  the  hour-or  perhaps  as  instinctively  as 
the  plant  that  turns  itself  to  the  ripening  of  the  sun- 
light-he  gave  himself  up  to  her,  without  any  reserve 
of  his  secrets,  returning  to  her  the  homage  of  all  the 
dreams  which  she  had  inspired,  the  flowering  of  the 
past  which  she  had  suddenly  made  perfect.  It  marked 
the  change  in  him  from  mere  dreaming  to  aggressive 
idealism.  He  was  no  longer  afraid  of  himself  or  of 
her,  resolved  that  whatever  he  believed  of  her  should 
be  made  true;  and  she  heard  him  at  first  with  shame 
and  protestations,  with  pity,  with  tenderness,  and  at 
last  with  a  humbled  gratitude  and  a  secret  pledge 


148 


DON.A-DBEAMS 


to  be  worthy  of  luch  devotion  if  it  were  poMible-until, 
lilce  a  pair  of  children  under  their  tree,  ghe  leaning 
against  his  shoulder,  holding  hands,  they  looked  nut 
on  the  future  with  shining  eyes,  trusting  it  with  th.' 
hope  of  their  hearts. 

She  was  to  be  a  singer,  perhaps  in  grand  opera 
surely  on  the  concert  stage;  ind  he  was  to  keep  busy 
with  his  books  while  she  was  working  with  her  muaie 
Thoy  would  meet  in  New  York-that  Lon.lon  of  «,„.' 
b.tious  young  Canadians.  He  would  fin.l  somethiim 
there  for  him  to  do;  "They  have  so  much  money  • 
he  said,  "they  '11  not  miss  the  few  thousands  I  '11 

need."    He  inspired  her,  for  the  moment,  with  s.> 

of  his  confidence,  and  she  tried  to  trust  herself  as  inucii 
as  he  trusted  her.  When  she  fell  silent,  regretting 
the  loss  of  girlish  irresponsibility  and  heart-freedom 
which  these  plans  required  of  her,  feeling  her  liaiid 
held  where  her  inclination  was  only  reluctantly 
settled,  he  saw  the  shadow  in  her  face  again,  and  said: 
"Don't  *rorry,  now.  Leave  it  to  me.  I  'II  make  it 
come  true.    I  always  have." 

She  sighed.  "It  is  n't  that.  It  is  n't  you.  It  's 
myself  I  'm  afraid  of." 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "I  '11  make  you  come  true, 
too." 

She  smiled  doubtfully,  watching  a  cloud  that  had 
furled  Itself  across  the  sun,  above  the  far  shore  of 
the  river,  low  on  the  horizon.  How  low  it  was-the 
sunl  "What  time  is  it?"  She  drew  her  watch  from 
her  belt.  " Goodness  1"  she  cried.  "It  's  nearly 
six  o'clock." 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


149 


"Oh  well,"  he  said.     "Who  carMf" 
Shf  eauBht  up  her  hat  frantically.     -It  will  take 
us  an  hour  to  get  back.    The  Kimlmlls-" 

He  came  down  to  realitiea,  troubled  by  her  alarm 
"I  know  a  short  cut." 
"Come!    yuick!    We  must  hurry  " 
He  starte.1  oflF  confidently  .m  his  "short  cut"-  and 
she  followed,  pinning  her  hat  as  she  went. 

They  lost  their  way  in  the  green  twilight  of  the 
«,Kxls.  It  was  dusk  before  they  came  out  upon  an  un- 
known road  antl  saw  their  stn^t-car  line.  It  was 
almost  dark  when  he  left  her  reluctantly,  at  the  Kim- 
ball gate.  And  when  he  was  sitting  at  his  window, 
,      '^P  ""''«»•  ted-smiling  at  the  sky  above  the  spire 

hI;  ^.'^''f"  "-^I™-  Kimball  was  saying  to  the 
defiant  g,rl:  "Very  well.  Very  well.  I  '11  write  to 
your  mother  at  once  then.  I  shall  no  longer  be  re- 
sponsible for  you,  if  you  do  such  things.    That  will  do  " 


XI 

A.  THOUGH  he  had  been  late  for  supper,  Mrs.  Stewart 
had  kept  him  a  plate  of  potatoes  and  meat  warm  in  the 
oven  and  he  had  eaten  them  without  thanking  her  for 
the  trouble  she  had  taken  for  him,  and  without  paying 
any  attention  to  her  complaint  that  Conroy  had  not 
yet  come  to  the  table.  And  now,  shut  in  his  room,  he 
remembered  Conroy  only  to  pity  him  for  having  missed 


150 


D0N-A-DREAM8 


he  ecstasy  of  sueh  days  as  this;  and  looking  out  over 
the  rustlmg  maples  that  lined  the  street  and  reached 
their  topmost  branches  almost  to  the  level  of  his  wi„ 

n  the  dark  blue  of  the  sky,  above  the  blind  roofs  of 

he  houses  on  the  slope  below  him,  feeling  himself  L 

tune  wUh  the  joyful  order  of  the  universe  and  pS 

il     ^'"'T*""'  "*  '^'  '°"'«*^«  °f  those  houses 

2h  7,f  "    H  i'f  ''''"^'^^'  '^''™°*  "*  the  happy' 
night  that  sparkled  above  them  in  its  eternal  calm     He 

incident,  like  a  miser  counting  the  day's  gains,  and  he 
only  turned  from  it  to  thoughts  of  a  future  rich  with 

stunfiSf '"■"""''  °*  """^  ''"'''  •'^y^-     The  moon 
swung  nself  up  among  the  horizon  clouds,  majestically; 

hung  in  the  heavens  as  a  memento  mori  to  this  stil 

loZ  Th  r'  '''  ""'''"'"'*^'  "  ^«^  *«  «"-  ^ 
lovers,  the  glimmering  summer  moon,  whose  light  was 

Hertlr'.?"".''  ^'°*'*''^  «"^  1«'«t  thoughts 
He  re  ted  his  chin  in  his  hands  and  smiled  at  it  like 
a  boy  listening  to  a  fairy  tale. 

It  was  midnight  before  he  heard  Conroy  stumbling 
up  the  porch  steps.  He  lit  his  lamp,  and  began  to 
unlace  his  shoes,  guiltily  aware  that  Conroy  would  be 
surprised  to  find  him  up  so  late.    It  was  this  though 

Well  what  kept  you?"  When  he  received  no  answer 
he  looked  over  his  shoulder,  smiling  confusedly,  and 
swlyfng     '^  ^°^  '''*"  ^  '""^'^  ^"^  *he  doorknob. 


THE  DAY-DEEAMER 


151 


His  hat  was  broken  and  crushed  down  on  his  eyes. 
His  necktie  was  awry,  his  waistcoat  torn  open.  He 
swung  the  door  shut  with  a  lurch,  and  grunted  "Uh?" 
Don  stood  up  and  watched  him  stumble  across  the 
room  to  his  cot  and  sit  down  on  it  heavily.  ' '  Wha '  kep ' 
me,  uhl"  He  tried  to  hang  his  hat  on  the  bed  post, 
dropped  it  on  the  floor,  and  laughed  feebly.  "Nothin' 
kep'  me-stayed.  Lossofun.  As'  the  Dean  wha'  kep' 
me.  As'  the  Dean."  He  waved  his  hand.  "FuUows 
said  I  was  'fraid  t'-t '-throw  brick  through  's  win- 
dow.   Uht    Wha'  say?" 

Don  turned  his  back,  sicl-ned  by  the  sight  of  that 
imbecile  face,  with  the  glazed  eyes  and  the  swollen  lips. 
Conroy  mumbled:    "You-I'm  eck-hic-spelled  " 

"Expelled!" 

"Ever  been  ek-spelled,  uh7  Man  on  each  arms  'n 
legs  throw  y'  over  a  fence.    Lossofun." 

It  was  not  until  the  next  morning  that  Don  heard  the 
story  from  a  sick  and  repentant  Conroy.  He  had  won 
a  bet  on  a  Varsity  baseball  game,  and,  with  his  win- 
nings, he  had  celebrated  the  victory  with  Pittsey  and 
some  others  of  the  coterie.  Pittsey  and  he  had  "taken 
too  much. "  On  a  "  dare ' '  from  the  others,  they  two  had 
gone  back  to  Residence  and  thrown  stones,  in  a  drunken 
folly,  through  the  Dean's  windows.  They  had  both 
been  caught,  the  others  escaping  in  the  darkness;  the 
Dean  had  told  them  that  they  might  consider  them- 
selves expelled  from  the  University;  and  when  they 
had  tried  to  attack  him,  they  had  been  put  out  of  the 
coUege  grounds  by  the  beadle  and  the  janitor  and  the 


152 


D0^-A-DREAM8 


hired  men  of  the  houses.    "It  was  a  regular  riot  "  he 
«ajd  weakly,  "and  those  d—d  cads,  after  ge tt^g 

T  Vu-  T^  ""'^  '^**  »«•"  He  turned  on  1^ 
«de  w.th  h«  face  to  the  wall,  faint  with  nausea  an 
^abandoned  hin^elf  to  a  sulky  despair,  refu S-g  t 
reply  to  Don's  half-hearted  attempts  to  consohil 
with  the  hope  that  the  affair  might  be  hushed  up  a  " 
not  even  speaking  when  Don  said,  "I'm  going  to  see  th 
Dean  as  soon  as  I 've  had  breakfast  " 
He  had  small  hope  of  aiding  his  cousin,  but  what 

mmd       I  should  be  very  sorry,"  he  said  frankly  "t„ 

hat  he  has  been  led  into  these  escapades  by  older  boys' 
han  he  But  I  'm  afraid  the  affair  is  not  in  my  hanl 
^nce  ,t  :s  not  a  matter  of  house  discipline,  your  cousin 
being  no  longer  in  Residence.  The  President  already 
knows  of  the  mcident-it  was  impossible  to  concea  t 
-and  he  wdl,  no  doubt,  act  as  he  sees  fit.  I  can  pr„mi  e 
you  most  willingly,  that  I  shall  use  my  influer 

to'sLTeT  *Tf  '*"^""^' "'"' '  *-' -^  «<i--V 

to  see  the  President  yourself." 
But  the  President-in  his  public  office  with  his  sec- 

vS7rT"^7  '^"'"  "'^  ^'''"'  -  »!•«  head  of  X 
University,  had  no  such  paternal  view  to  take  of  Con- 
roy  s  offense.  He  listened  to  Don's  stammering  app  I 
with  a  stern  face.  " The  Dean, "  he  said  curtly  "N„' 
Such  drunken  vandalism  is  a  disgrace  to  the  University' 
I  r;"';^™''.^  the  expulsion  of  eveiy  student  whom' 
I  can  connect  with  it."  And  Don  left  his  hope  in  that 
office  when  he  went  out. 


THE  DAY-DBEAMER  153 

..  ^V 1""?^  *"  ^^  "*"*'  «t«°ding  to  advise  Conroy 
that  he  had  better  hurry  home  and  throw  himself  on 
his  father  s  mercy  before  the  Board  could  meet  to  pass 
sentence  upon  him;  but  Conroy  had  dressed  and  left 
the  house,  and  Mrs.  Stewart  did  not  know  where  he  had 
gone.    Don  waited  for  him  all  the  afternoon,  trying  to 
feel  worried  and  depressed,  but  unable  to  do  so  because 
of  the  happy  thoughts  of  Margaret  that  kept  singing 
m  his  mind  like  music.    And  the  sum  of  his  reflections 
was  a  sentimental  foresight  that  whatever  grief  or  cal- 
amity might  fall  on  him  in  his  future,  it  would  strike 
him  only  a  glancing  blow  so  long  as  he  had  her  affec- 
tion to  fortify  him. 

♦h"^*  w.  °'"'f '''  •"  '''°*  *"  "»««*  her,  hastening 
through  the  mild  sunlight  with  a  rising  spirit;  and  he 
greeted  her  wit:,  a  smile  which  he  concealed  hypocriti- 
cally when  he  saw  her  expression.  He  thought  that  she 
had  heard  the  bad  news  of  Conroy. 

She  said,  abruptly:  "Mrs.  Kimball  has  written  to 
mother.  And  standing  on  the  street  corner,  digging 
the  ferule  of  her  parasol  into  the  grass  of  the  "boule 
vard  she  told  him  of  the  scene  of  the  previous  even- 
mg,  how  Mr«.  Kimball  had  scolded  her,  how  she  had 
defied  the  woman,  how  the  daughters  had  taken  part 
with  their  mother  against  her,  and  how,  finally,  they 
had  written  to  Mrs.  Richardson,  refusing  to  have  in 
tmr  house  "any  girl  who  would  go  unchaperoned  into 
the  woods  with  a  Varsity  student  and  remain  there 
until  after  nightfall."  She  was  still  defiant,  still  unre- 
pentant. 'I  've  written,  too,"  she  said,  "but  I  know 
mother   11  not  understand.    If  she  does  n't  come  up 


154 


D0N-A-DREAM8 


here  to  take  me  away,  she  '11  write  for  me  to  go  to  her  " 

And  leave  your  musip?"    w.  u  j  .^  toner, 

on  another  mont'h  of  meet^  at  tlYelt  1^7° 'l"^' 
«o  near  to  him  that  she  would  never  be  ^W  .  ^''"' 
and  forgetful  of  him  again  '  *°  ^°  ^''' 

lerbt^riSonsT"''"  '"'^'^  '-"'"in^ 
When  She  ^ooZ^TZ,  sh   eSe;°%?S"ft  r" 

dumb  o^thTe  r^r 'jr^^  '^''"^«'^'  «-- 

of  his  college  coLf  aUh  t^'lLTl^^^  ^""^^ 

HIS  helplessness  irritated  her-  he  haH  k. 
dent  of  his  plans  undpr  ft,  .  ''*^°  *°  """f" 

he  would  see  some  wav    f   "  v'  *''''*  '"'  '""^  "^''^^'^ 
degndingherJ^VLT^lr^lnrt^ir^^- 

ing'^^iitarin'ir:' t^j  '""'^^^ «' "  '^-^ '^•-  ^'■«^- 

if  the  s-:roke  of  toaster  rHTt""'  '"''  '*  "««  - 
■^f  his  life ;  and  with  hi«  f  .  '""'i"-°'^^«  the  continuity 
he  tried  t;  pTek  un  t^.K  T  '"'^'^"'^  «""«  *'•'»»  hi..' 
and  found  WmL7i''""^''^«*'•'"«^«  ^''^^  ^'^'-'^  >«ft 

""  -n .«.  1.  ..„. ...  rjr  I'vs':, 


THE  DAY-DREAMER  155 

something.     Your   mother-See   the    way    she    came 

around  about  the  letter.    She  did  n't  forbid  you  to  let 

me  call-or  anything.     Look!    Here  are  some  people 

!      commg.    Don't  let  them  see  you— " 

She  put  up  her  parasol  and  screened  her  face  from 
the  passersby.  He  went  the  rest  of  the  way  in  a  miser- 
able silence,  she  holding  the  parasol  down  against  him 
too.  When  he  left  her  at  the  gate,  he  pleaded:  "I'll 
know  to-morrow.    I  '11  meet  you— there.    Don't—" 

She  cut  him  short  with  a  blind  gesture  of  dismissal 
She  could  not  tell  him  that  she  had  been  crying  with 
anger  and  sslf-pity  because  of  the  insolence  of  the  Kim- 
balls,  and  with  disappointment  because  he  had  not 
thought  of  any  way  to  defend  her  from  them.  She 
went  mdoors  without  a  backward  glance  at  him. 

He  began  an  interminable  walk  that  led  him  in  cir- 
cles of  thought,  around  and  around,  to  no  plan,  to  no 
conclusion,  to  no  hope.  She  was  going  to  leave  him 
for  three  years  at  least.  There  was  nothing  he  could 
do,  nothing  he  could  say,  to  prevent  it.  She  was  going 
to  leave  him.  And  would  she  be  waiting  for  him  on  the 
other  side  of  that  desert  of  separation!  He  was  tor- 
mented by  the  fear  that  she  might  not.  She  was  going 
to  leave  him.  And  suddenly  he  felt  desperate,  in  revolt 
against  the  fate  that  was  persecuting  him,  ready  to 
do  anything  that  would  break  this  tyranny  of  circum- 
stances and  set  him  free  to  model  his  life  to  his  desire. 

He  did  not  return  to  the  boarding-house  for  supper 
and  when  he  did  return  he  found  Conroy  and  his  friend 
Pittsey,    evidently   waiting    for   him,    in    the    room 


156 

'Hello!' 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


His  lloiineily'?''  '"  ''^^'"""'«"-    "^^^  ^'o- 

better  go  home  and  tell  your  father  Lf       iu   I  "  '' 

"Not  on  your  life!"  Conrov  renlio^  "i> 
home."  ^"nroy  replied,     /'m  not  going 

''What  are  you  going  to  do  J" 

;--eigarette.r^Sd^T^^S;: 

challenge  to  his  am^meS  '  ™'''*' ''°  ''"'"^'''' 

"New-  But-but  what  are  yon  going  to  dof 
Conroy  replied  recklessly:     ''Oh  we   'U  fi^H 

th  ng,  I  Kues8     Pitf=<.,,  •■      ""  ^^    ''  find  some- 

me  for  a  month  or  tritLr  '"""^'^  '""""^  *°  '''"^'' 
again. "  ^wo-till  the  governor  comes  around 

J»_eried:    "But    supposing    he    does    n't    .K,me 

Well,  Great  Scott ! ' '  Conroy  said  "  T  'm  „.*     tu 
year-Old,  and  I  'm  sick  of  beLrtreatedl'^S  ]^, 


157 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 

StTth"""'"*  ,^'ndergarten  business  makes  me  tired. 

\  hat  s  he  use  of  hanging  around  her^  for  four  yea«  ? 

don't  learn  anything  that  'll  ever  be  any  good  to 

you.    We   U  have  to  strike  out  for  ourselves  some  fme 

n  "",  T^*r  '''"  ""''  '*  ™^  ««  «°y  other  day"" 
Don  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  silenced 
You    11  never  learn  to  swim  until  you  go  into  the 
water,"  P.ttsey  put  in  airily.    He  reached  a  text  book 
hat  was  lymg  on  Don's  table,  and  be«a„  to  turn  o^r 

0  Don  that  the.r  mmds  were  made  up.    He  looked  at 
hem  almost  with  envy.    They  were  going  to  do  wha 
he  would,  too-if  he  dared.  s  lo  uo  wnat 

Then  Pittsey,  tossing  the  book  back  on  the  table  with 
Mfes  ure  of  decision,  said:  "Expelled?  We  '11  e^el 
thenl  The  pompous  flat-heads  with  their  macWne 
r  ti'^L education,  we  '11  expel  them  out  of  our 
hves^  Eh  Mac?"  And  without  bitterness,  as  if  the 
who^  affa.r  were  a  lark  to  him,  alert  and  self-assured 
he  began  o  make  fun  of  the  college,  the  professors  the 
eetures,   the  students,   the  country-everything  'tha 

m,hng  when  P.ttsey  smiled  and  agreeing  with 
ve.-ythang  m  resolute  nods,  his  teefh  biften  „ 
to  h,s  p.pe.  "What  's  the  use  of  staying  he^  "' 
P.ttsey  demanded,  his  close-set  black  eyes  sparkling  on 
Dons  gloomy  abstraction.  "Everything  's  scaled  to 
he  wage  of  a  dollar  a  day.    They  Keep  their  savLg 

unl>l  he  gets  married;  and  then  they  raise  him  every 
time  his  wife  has  a  baby.  As  for  literature!"  He  flicked 


158 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


-Lr  ,  *"  °"  *•'*'''•""•■  '"^'•^y  ^""'t  charge  you 
anything  for  prmtmg  your  stuff-unless  you  want  t! 
bnngoutabook.  You  have  to  pay  for  a  b,;k.  C' 
money  m  writing  school  reade«,  I  understand-and 
Cty  Directories  If  they  want  anything  to  read  aft. 
they  leave  school,  they  buy  a  set  of  Dickens  or  Tha 
.•ray,  and  enjoy  the  latest  thing  in  literature  I  'd 
sooner  write  ads  for  a  New  York  department  store  on 
a  salary  of  three  thousand  a  year. ' ' 

Don  heard  him  without  heeding  him.  Thov 

were  going  to  New  York !    At  one  stroke  they  were  set 
mg  themselves  free!    He  crossed  his  knees  to  hd    . 

Se  „?  "*  *r'  "^  '"  *«  '«^'  «">"ding  on  th 
verge  of  a  resolution,  afraid  of  the  leap.  At  a 
pause  in  Pittsey's  babble,  he  asked  Conroy :  "When  a.^ 
you  going?"  "uenare 

»™'^  'V't^«  *<»•  ray  month's  check  from  the  gov- 
emor.    It  ought  to  be  here  Monday     Why?" 

Both  Pittsey  and  he  saw  something  i„  Don's  face. 
They  watched  him  in  a  puzzled  silence.    He  blink»d 
X.7fr^.l^'  "  ^^  "'"'"*  *°  """'^  his  first  dive. 
-'W'h     "  "  ^  """^  ^°  "^'^  ^°"- " 

"Wha-a-attt" 

"I've  been  thinking  of  it  for  some  time  i  'ii 

never  pass  these  exams.  .  .  I've  been' sa;ing  every 
c  nt  I  could.  .  .  I  had  a  quarrel  with  my  fath^ 
at  Christmas-about  not  studying  law-"  He  gulped 
on  his  secret,  with  an  expression  of  beseeching  them  not 
to  press  him  for  the  whole  truth 
Pittsey  came   to   his  relief  with   a  shrill   laugh. 


^HE  DAY-DEEAMKR  159 

"Caegar'sghostl"  he  cried.  "The  three  of  us  Let's 
eat  on  It.  Come  on.  It's  my  treat.  Come  on.  Have 
a  feed  on  me  at  Durkin's."  Conroy  was  staring  at  his 
cousm,  over  the  pipe  which  he  held,  forgotten,  at  his 
lips.    "Eh,  Mac?"    Pittsey  prodded  him. 

Don  smiled  tremulously  at  Conroy,  and  said  "I— I'm 
iiiiiiKry  enough." 

"Come  on,  then!" 


XII 

TiiEY  went;  and  they  made  their  plans  together,  over 
beefsteak  and  potatoes,  as  daringly  as  three  musketeers 
of  romance  conspiring  to  overturn  a  dynasty  with  their 
rapiers.    They  returned,  through  the  quiet  streets,  in 
a  Ime  abreast,  all  keyed  up  to  Pittsey 's  high  spirits 
swaggering  and  talking  as  freely  as  if  they  were  irre-' 
sponsible  young  tourists  in  a  foreign  land-as  indeed 
they  seemed  to  Don,  when  he  looked  around  at  the  shops 
and  the  houses  that  watched  him  with  such  an  alien 
impassiveness  as  he  paraded  by.    Pittsey  left  them  at 
Mrs.  Stewart's  door,  and  went  off  whistling  martially; 
but  his  spirit  presided  over  the  flushed  council  which 
Don  and  Conroy  kept  in  session  until  two  o'clock  on 
Sunday   morning,    perfecting   their   plans   in    detail, 
counting  their  money  and  encouraging  their  hopes. 

In  pursuance  of  those  plans,  Don,  the  next  day 
wrote  to  his  mother  that,  after  all,  his  father  had  been 
nprht :  that  he  felt  he  would  be  better  at  work ;  that  Con- 
roy-as  she  would  probably  hear  from  the  McLeans- 


^^  DON-A-DBEAMS 

had  Botten  into  trouble  at  the  Univeraity  and  wa.  leav. 

decided  to  accompany  hU  cousin. 
They  would  be  better  together.     They  had  save,! 

S?  T'^/"  ""*"  '•'*'"  "»*"  ^''•'y  "'""•d  fl-J  «0">e. 
thmg  to  du  He  was  soriy  that  this  would  prevent  him 
from  spending  h.s  su,-,mer  holiday  in  Coulton,  but  if 
all  went  well-as  he  was  sure  it  would-he  c^uld  be 
home  for  a  happy  Christmas. 

"Frank  can  take  my  place  at  the  University."  he 
cone  uded.  "His  success  will  make  up  with  father  for 
my  failure.  I  mtend  to  do  better  where  I  am  goinir 
I  W.11  thmk  of  you  and  write  to  you  eve^^  day.  Addr.^ 

York  Cit    ''^'*'*°*'  **  ^^^  *^™*™'  ^™*  ^®'""'  ^''^ 
He  did  not  add  any  messages  of  affection:  he  felt 

that  m  his  present  mood,  they  would  be  hypocritical 
He  wrote  to  his  aunt  that  Conroy-as  she  would  prob- 

ably  hear  from  Conroy  himself-was  leaving  the  Uni- 

which  he  had  been  blamed  although  he  was  by  no  means 
the  ringleader  in  it;  that  he,  himself,  had  decided  he 
could  not  afford  to  waste  three  years  more  on  his  edu- 
cation; and  that  they  were  going  to  make  a  start 
together  in  New  Tork. 

No  doubt  it  would  seem  very  foolish  to  her,  but  Con- 
roy  was  afraid  to  go  home  and  face  Uncle  John  For 
his  own  part,  he  had  quarrelled  with  his  father  at 
Christmas  about  refusing  to  study  law,  and  in  order  to 
avoid  further  trouble  he  was  taking  his  affairs  into  his 
own  hands.    They  were  both  well  supplied  with  money 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


161 
she  need  not  worry  about  that.  He  owed  mort  of  hi.  to 
her,  but  he  wa«.  Koin^  to  earn  now,  and  he  hon^  tl  h! 
able  to  repay  her— «]thnn.Ti,     t  .         '^  "^ 

rw  her  Vr  Z  kf„S  '    '  """"■  '"'  '^''^  ''-- 
She  was  not  to  worry  about  Conroy.     Everythin., 

aiwL^'no  1"""''  ''"*  ""'  ^■'"'  '■*P«''*'»«  himself  and 

upS  ''Vr^ff  ","  '"''   '•'   """^"•'^'l   himself, 
aoruptly      y„ur  affectionate  nephew,"  and  was  done 

He  addressed  his  envelopes  with  a  heavy  app«he„ 
sion  of  the  ^ief  and  anxiety  which  thev  wn„M  k 
to  Coulton ;  but  he  consoled  himself  ite Tope' ^^ 
of  youth,  with  the  assurance  that  irrief  w««  » 
accident  of  life  which  would  be  fo«n      "  h^«T* 

roy  to   Coulton,    for   their   Christmas   holiday    with 

he  feU  It  :ir  '^"•''l^  ""'  ^"'=""  '»  *heir  smife's;  and 
he  felt  that  the  joy  of  such  a  reunion  would  more  than 

rrrpit.^"^  ""''>-  ^'^^-^  --  ---^  - 

eol!^rtelt^h„Tr°T"*^  "'«  ""-  ^--  his 
tuiiege  texts  so  that  he  might  sell  them  second  hnn,! 

ence.  One  of  the  benefits  of  a  college  education  is 
0  show  the  boy  its  little  avail."  He  put  the  proof  of 
Margaret's  photograph  between  the  fim  pages  of  the 
E^ay  on  Love  tied  up  the  volume  with  a  shoeXing 
and  hid  It  m  the  bottom  of  his  trunk  beside  the  b We' 
which  his  mother  had  given  him  at  Christmas     And 


162  D0N-A-DREAM8 

he  carried  himwlf,  through  all  theae  preparatioM,  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  has  taken  his  deciiion  and  is 
resolved  to  act  on  it  without  further  thought. 

Conboy'b  check  came  in  the  morning  mail.  And  they 
were  ready-all  but  Pittaey.  He  was  waiting  for  won! 
from  hiR  brother,  who,  it  seemed,  was  an  actor  of  uncer- 
tain address,  generally  written  to  "in  care"  of  a  dram- 
atic paper  because  he  was  more  often  "on  the  road" 
than  in  New  York.  Pittsey  had  mailed  his  letter  Sat- 
urday morning;  he  should  have  a  reply  on  Tuesday; 
in  any  case  they  would  wait  no  later  than  Tuesday 
morning.  Conroy  hurried  to  the  bank  to  cash  his  check, 
and  Don  accompanied  him  part  of  the  way,  going  to 
sell  his  books  to  a  second-hand  dealer.  They  agreed  to 
meet  again  at  the  railroad  offices  to  buy  their  tickets. 

But  the  first  dealer  to  whom  Don  offered  his  volumes, 
haggled  interminably  over  the  purchase,  offering  sn 
little  for  them  that  Don  refused  to  sell  them  and  carried 
them  to  a  second  dealer  who  would  give  less  than  the 
first.  They  were  finally  sold  at  such  a  loss  that  Don 
felt  too  poor  to  pay  his  street-car  fare  to  the  ticket 
office,  and  he  walked,  ruefully  fingering  the  few  silver 
coins  in  the  pocket  of  his  trousers  and  despising  the 
commercial  worid  that  made  second-hand  book-dealers 
what  they  were.  Half  way  to  their  rendezvous,  Conroy 
hailed  him  from  the  rear  platform  of  a  passing  street- 
car, beckoning  him  warningly  to  turn  back,  his  face 
as  ghastly  as  if  he  were  waving  a  red  flag  tc  save  a 
railway  train  from  destruction.  Don  ran  after  the  ear, 
alarmed,  and  saw  Conroy  alighting  at  a  street  corner! 


'  II  n- 


THE  DAY-DBEAMKB  163 

"They-they  wouldn't  cadi  it,"  he  gmmtd       FT,. 
U  eKraphed  them  to  .top  p.y„.e„'t.     He'"Ss   \„„ 
They  mm  have  written-f,x,m  the  Univer.it' 
becoming  himself.    What  '11  I  dot " 

nmK  had  made  him  hot,  and  thia  new   n.t«.. 
l.r.uiKht  the  perspiration  out  on  him  lik.  :.  f  .ar        ' 
oan  buy  the  ticket.,"  he  «iid  faintly.    "Yo„    d  ^.nn 
"""^larrrdr;^^-    ««'"-«-«> --Her." 

"He  '11  follow  us." 

tn" ^'""i 'f  ^^'^'^  ""'*  y°»  •«"*•  how  will  he-I  don 't 
now     AskPittsey.     Go  and  ask  Pittsey."    He  j"s 

liked  the  part  of  a  plotter. 
Conroy  saw  himself  cast  off,  like  a  drowning  man  to 

I  .^•'l"^^'  P'^^ti^ely--  "Why  should  I  leave  yout 
li^J^n     "^^t   ^^"^  *"''  P"*««y"    He  found 

Conm5T.  t?"^"""-  ^'  "^^'^  ««""'y  "«  he  helped 
Conroy  aboard  another  ear:  "I  '11  hide  your  things 
under  your  bed-in  case  he  comes.  ■  ■  ^ 

He  eame. 

.ri"^^'  r""*  •"*''  '""°'  ^""^  °°  *he  heels  of  his  tele- 
gram, for  he  amved  at  the  boarding  house  soon  after 
mulday,  and  mounted  heavily  to  the  boys'  room  after 


'    i 


1^*  DON-A-DREAMS 

f\f7^."J  u  ^^  **•""  ''^•^'•««««''  *°  Mrs.  Stewart  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs.    He  filled  the  doorway  like  a  "ug 
and  angry  obstruction  to  their  plans.    "Where  is  he?" 
he  demanded. 
Don  answered  at  bay:  "He  's  not  here.    He  's  out." 

What  's  he  been  doing?" 
Don  stammered  a  confused  explanation  of  Conroy's 
misbehavior,  apologetically.     Mr.  McLean  heard  him 
through  with  a  worried  glare,  blocking  the  door  "Why 
did  n  t  you  write  and  tell  me  what  was  going  on?" 

I  didn't  know.    He  did  n't  let  me  know.    He  left 
attord-"^^'''  "'  ""'"*  '"*''  P-««idence.    I  couldn't 

Mr  McUan  tossed  his  hat  on  the  bed,  and  sat  down 
in  a  chair  that  received  him  creakingly.    "He  's  had  too 
much  money,"  he  summed  it  up.    His  bu:-.,-  shoulde,. 
sank  down  on  him  in  a  way  that  gave  him  an  appear- 
ance  of  stricken  weariness,  and  though  he  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  Don  it  was  with  a  blank  gaze  that  did  not 
seem  to  see  the  boy.    "Things  have  been  made  too  easy 
for  him.      He  fingered  his  beard,  and  plucked  it  impa- 
tiently,  frowning.    "Should  have  looked  after  him  " 
_     He-he   's  all  right,"  Don  tried  to  console  him. 
It  was  n  t  his  fault.    The  boys'  he  got  in  with-they 
led  him  on  to  it." 
"Does  he  say  what  he  's  going  to  do?" 
"Well''-Don  drew  a  long  breath-"!  'm  leaving 
college.    I  quarrelled  with  father  about  studying  law 
I   m  going  to  New  York  with  a  friend  who  knows  the 
city  and  Conroy  wants  to  go  with  me.     We  '11  find 
something  to  do  there-some  work.    We  're  wasting  our 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


165 
time  here.   I  think  it  'II  be  a  good  thing  for  him.    We  '11 
not  have  enough  money  to  more  than  pay  board  " 
ms  uncle  had  focussed  a  surprised  stare  on' him. 
What  sort  of  work?"  , 

"Why,  anything  we  can  find." 
Mr  McLean  made  a  mouth  and  shook  his  head.  "New 
York  "  he  said.  "Ten  thousand  people  are  looking  foT 
work  m  New  York.    Where  is  he,    I'll  take  him  horn: 

"I'm  afraid  he  won't  go,  sir,"  Don  replied  with  a 
sudden  darmg.  "He  's  afraid-and  I  guess  he  's 
ashamed.    He  knew  you  were  coming ;  they  refused  pay 

r~  °  tK        r'  f  *""  •"^'^-    ««  ^°"'''  ^  't  <=<»"«  back 
here  with  me  for  fear  you'd  find  him  " 

"Where  is  he?" 

"I  don't  know." 

Mr.  McLean  shifted  irritably  in  his  chair.    "Wants 
to  run  away,  does  he ! " 
"He  's-he  's  not-He  hasn't  been  doing  anything 

thaT  r '"V  ^T  P'-'J«<1'  "--Pt  the  drinking  and 
that-he  's  been  led  into  that." 

Mr.  McLean  did  not  listen.  He  took  a  cigar  from 
an  upper  pocket  of  his  waistcoat,  struck  a  match  I^d 
puckered  his  eyes  on  the  smoke.  "Huh!"  he  glted 
over  his  thoughts.  He  began  to  scrutinize  Do™^ 
ta  ively,  and  the  boy  looked  away.  It  was  evHent 
that  a  decision  was  coming  out  of  the  silence.  Don  did 
not  speak. 

His  uncle  asked:  "Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  earn 
your  own  living-away  from  home  t " 


166 


DON-A-DREAMS 


"No.  Neither  does  he."  He  relapsed  into  thouRhf 
again.  .  * 

Don  waited. 

"Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  be  on  the  streets  without 
enough  to  eat?  No."  He  chewed  his  cigar.  He  .'rum 
bled :  "  It  would  n  't  hurt  him  to  learn. '  •  He  shook  his 
head  He  muttered,  in  his  beard:  "Boys  nowadays- 
Huhl"  '' 

Suddenly  he  asked:  "How  much  money  have  you?" 
"I  have  a  hundred  and  fifty-seven  dollars.    And  Con 

has  a  httle-I  don't  know  how  much -twenty-some  dol- 

lars. 

He  smoked.    "Will  yon  look  after  him?" 

"Yes." 

After  another  interval  of  communion  with  his  cigar 
he  demanded:  "Will  you  write  to  me?" 

"Yes." 

"Will  you  promi&e  not  to  write  to  me  for  money  for 
him  unless  he  hasn't  enough  to  buy  food?" 

"I  '11  promise  not  to  write  to  you  for  money  at  all  " 

"No,  /ou  won't.  I  don't  want  that.  I  want  him  to 
have  to  work,  but  I  don't  want  him  to  have  to  starve 
•  .  And  you  're  not  to  let  him  know  that  I  'm  sending 
you  money  for  him,  do  you  understand?" 

"I  '11  not  let  him  know  anything  about  it  unless  you 
wish  me  to." 

"Don't  let  him  know  that  I  'm  sending  him  money- 
that's  all."  ^ 

"Aunt  Jane,"  Don  hinted.  "Is  she  to  know?" 
Mr.  McLean  looked  at  him  with  an  amused  apprecia- 
tion of  his  opinion  of  Aunt  Jane's  ability  to  keep  a 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


167 


secret.    "No  one  'a  to  know  but  you  and  me.    No  one, 
now,  understand  J" 
Don  understood. 

Mr.  McLean  reflected  slowly.    "Now  look  here,"  he 
said,  "I  could  take  him  home  and  put  him  to  work,  but 
I  don't  want  to  make  a  whipped  cur  of  him.    And  I 
don't  want  to  treat  him  the  way  the  old  people  treated 
me.    I  want  him  to  find  his  feet— if  he  can.    And  I 
want  you  to  help  him." 
"Yes,  sir.     I  understand." 
"When  are  you  going t" 
"To-morrow." 

"To-morrow,  eh?  "What  does  your  father  say?" 
"I  don't  know.  I  haven't  heard  from  him  yet." 
"Running  away,  too,  are  you?"  He  stretched  out 
his  thick  leg  with  a  chuckle  and  went  down  in  his  pock- 
et for  a  roll  of  bills.  He  took  off  several  for  himself 
and  held  out  the  remainder  to  Don,  with  his  cigar  fum- 
ing in  his  mouth  and  his  eyes  closed  against  the  bite  of 
smoke  that  drifted  into  them.    "Here." 

"I  don't  need  that,  sir."  Don  said.  "I  have  enough. 
Aunt  Jane  has  been—" 

"Here !"  he  choked,  one  hand  in  his  pocket,  the  other 
filled  with  bills. 

Don  took  them  from  him  to  relieve  him.  He  removed 
his  cigar  from  below  his  nose,  caught  his  breath,  and 
said:  "Twenty  dollars  won't  see  him  far."  He  reached 
for  his  hat.  "They  '11  teach  you  something  about 
money  before  you  're  there  long. ' ' 

Don  smiled  crookedly  over  his  embarrassment  of 
riches. 


'-'^HiHi:')!^; 


^«8  liON-A-DREAMS 

';it  '8  time  you  learned.    Good-bye." 

"What ..,  I  'jrzLcZy^  H?Tt:^  *°  "'^^ 

been  here."  ''^  "  Know  you  Vo 

New  York  and  get  Ml '  f  L  ^  ^""^  *"  ^°  ^""^  »» 
him  we  '11  say  no  Irabout  t  .7''  "*"  ''•'"•  '^«" 
at  Christmas  with  sole  r  V  '  ""'"'^  ^^^  *«  »" 
Tell  him  I  hopThe  'llta rn     f  7"^.^  '°  '''^  P°«k«t. 

hce  and  eve Jthtg  Vrrdeltr  hi^  \tr."  T' 
you'll  tell  him-and  it's  true  °"  ^"""^.^Jat   s  what 

^yOhe^a^ded,  in  another  voi.;.Ve;;i^^^ 

w^th^^'^Ctir  rh^wi^H"^"  r  ''''-■  ^'-  ^« 

the  roll  of  bills   «Z  "  ''""'  ^^  t"™«d  over 

arms  up  over  hi  head' mT'  ''""'^'^  '^  '^''''''^d  »"» 
triumphant  detnct  f 'a  prSi?  """^  ^^*'>  *''^' 
on  the  walls  of  the  dun^T  is  iTtrirr"^ 

failed  to  see  whv  Dnn  1  "  '^''''^"'  '''"^f  that 

>ne  baggage  and  buying  tickets  fori  ^'  """■ 

on  the  early  morning  train     It  „!     ^'^  ''"■''  *°  '''''' 
per  that  Don  was  free  t„     ^ /"'""*  ""t"  after  sup. 

Whom  he  had  TsiTsireel  tL  r^rrS" 

-e,n,"  he  told  the  maid.  warrT^^hethlsr 


THE  DAY-DREAMEB  169 

the  Kimballs  were  in  the  parW.    "Tell  her  I  '11  only 
keep  her  a  moment." 

He  saw  her  come  downstairs,  as  if  from  the  isolation 
of  her  bedroom.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  her  from 
the  threshold.  He  said,  in  a  rush:  "I  Ve  come  to  say 
good-bye.  I  'm  starting,  in  the  morning,  for  New  York 
-with  Conroy.  We  're  leaving  college.  If  you  write 
to  us  at  the  General  Post  Office,  New  York-or  if 
you  're  there-to  send  me  your  address.     We  leave 

to-morrow  morning." 
She  cried,  under  her  breath,  "You  're  not!" 
He  smiled  at  her  reassuringly,  feeling  the  startled 

grip  of  her  fingers  but  unable  to  see  her  face  because 

she  had  her  back  to  the  dim  light.    "Our  baggage  is  at 

the  station." 

She  backed  him  out  oa  the  porch  and  shut  the  door 
behmd  her.  "You  're  not!  You  must  n't!  It  's- 
Why!    What  are  you  doing!" 

He  laughed.  "I  was  only  wasting  time  here.    I  told 
yon  I'd  make  things  come  out  right 
"Rightt" 

"I  couldn't  wait  three  years  to  begin.  I  want  to  be 
at  work.    I  want  to  be  nearer  the— together- j/om." 

She  dropped  his  hand  as  if  it  had  stung  her  "DonI" 
It  was  all  she  could  say,  but  the  tone  was  eloquent  of 
emotions  which  he  had  not  expected.  He  -.vaited,  stiff 
bhe  went  on,  with  a  shudder  in  her  voice:  "Oh  you 
mustn't.  I  'mnot-I  'm  not  sure.  .  .  of  myself  I 
didn't  mean  to.  I  thought -Oh!"  And  she  began  to 
sob. 

He  put  on  his  hat.    He  opened  his  mouth'  to  get  his 


170 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


breath.  He  found  himself  hoping  insanely  that  he  would 
not  have  to  speak,  because  his  throat  was  trembling  and 
his  hps  were  sticking  to  his  teeth.  He  heard  her,  at  a 
distance  from  him,  weeping  in  a  vast  hush  that  hatl  set- 
tied  down  on  him  like  the  peace  that  broods  over  ruins 
in  a  desert,  among  sands,  at  night. 

She  was  saying:  '  'ou  promised-You  said  you'd 
wait.  Itoldyou-ItoldyouI'dtrj/.  Ididn'tknow- 
How  could  I?  I  did  n't  mean-I-I  thought  we  'd  bo 
good  friends.  .  .  and  write.  I- 1 'm  not  ready  y,t 
I  don  t  want  to  think  of-of  marrying  any  one  yet  I 
want  to  be  free."  ' 

He  was  conscious  only  of  the  need  of  getting  away 
somewhere,  alone.  He  stumbled  to  the  edge  of  the  porch 
At  a  cry  from  her,  he  stopped  there.  She  came  to  him 
m  the  darkness  and  pleaded:  "Don't!  Don't!  Don't 
do  it.    Don't  leave  college." 

"It  's  too  late,"  he  said  hoarsely,  and  gathering  her 
mto  his  arms,  with  a  sort  of  despairing  longing  for 
what  might  have  been,  he  found  her  wet  cheek  with  his 
hps,  and  kissed  her.  "Good-bye,"  he  whisper..,!. 
Don  t  cry.  It  's  all  right.  I  can  stand  it.  I  'm  used 
to  it.    I  can  wait." 

She  released  herself  with  a  sudden  effort  and  disai). 
peared  into  the  house. 

He  returned  to  his  room,  fighting  with  himself  to 
maintain  his  resolution  to  endure  this  disappointment 
too,  to  wait  for  her,  to  work  for  her,  to  be  true  to  her 
in  spite  of  her.  But  even  while  he  was  saying  to  himself 
"I  can  wait!    I  can  wait!"  another  voice  was  asking 


THE  DAY-DREAMER  171 

him  whether  it  was  worth  waiting  for,  whether  this 
belauded  love  was  not  all  vanity  and  vexation, 
whether  there  could  be  anything  divine  in  a  sentiment 
which  had  brought  him  nothing  but  disappointment 
after  disappointment,  whether  he  was  not  playing  the 
fool  to  his  hopes  and  living  m  a  delusion  and  building 
his  future  on  another  make-believe.  He  sat  down  at 
his  bare  table  in  a  room  which  held  nothing  of  his,  now, 
but  his  packed  valise;  and  overcome  by  the  desolation 
of  the  moment  that  stood  empty  between  his  past  and 
his  future,  he  struggled  against  the  tears  that  ehokoil 
him,  clinging  to  his  ideals,  repeating  blindly  -'I  cun 
wait!    I  can  wait!" 


PART  in 
THE  IDEALIST 


PITTSEY  "knew  the  ropes,"  as  he  expressed  it.  lie 
knew  where  to  find  cheap  lodpngs  in  New  York, 
and  he  knew  enouffh  not  to  remain  in  them.    ' '  We  don 't 
iKiard,"  he  said.    "Oh,  no!    Not  in  New  York!    We 
camp.    Wait  till  I  show  you.    We  rent  a  flat  at  twenty 
dollars  a  month.     We  furnish  it  for  twenty  dollars 
more.     We  do  our  own  cooking  on  a  gas  stove  that 
t'()08  with  the  flat.    Wait  till  I  show  you!    I  have  n't 
lH«n  camp   cook   for  nothing.     Porridge  and  boiled 
vgKs  and  cofl-ee  for  breakfast.    Delicatessen  and  stewed 
prunes  for  luncheon.     Beefsteak  and  boiletl  potatoes 
and  tea  for  dinner.    Wait  till  I  show  you!    I  've  been 
horc  before,  many  's  the  time,  many  's  the  time.    As 
Napoleon  did  n't  say :  'The  man  who  storms  New  York, 
conquers  on  his  commissariat!"    Leave  it  to  me." 

They  left  it  to  him.  He  foraged  for  them  at  the 
stations  on  their  way  down,  refusing  to  let  them  pay 
.lining-eT  prices  for  their  meals.  He  conducted 
them  across  the  New  Jersey  ferry,  pointing  out  the 
hiffh  buildings  that  loomed  mountainously  above  the 
New  York  shore,  under  a  sky  that  was  pale  with  the 
reflected  glare  of  hidden  street  lights.  He  led  them 
111  a  fly-blown  restaurant  and  fed  them  on  corned-beef 
hash  "browned  in  the  pan,"  coffee  and  "wheats." 
He  found  them  a  cheap  hotel  where  they  left  their 


MICROCOPY   RESOIUTION   TtSI  CHART 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


A  APPLIED  IMHGE    In 

^=-^  165J  Easl  Main   Street 

=rg  Rochester,   Ne.   York         i4609       USA 

rj^  ( "  6)  *82  -  0300  -  Phone 

^^  (?16)   38$  -  5989  -  Fo» 


"6  DON-A-DBEAMS 

valises    in  a  bedroom  that  smelled  like  the  inside  of 

a   ™sty   stove.      ("Good   enough,"   he   said      ''Th 

ihts  of  "thl  pm/'°*'''  *''''"  "''"•^  t"™  to  th" 
?*».  u     .  ^  Rialto,"  and  went  through  the  crowd, 
w.th  his  hat  on  the  back  of  hi.  head,  laughing  an' 
talkmg  lake  a   city  boy  taking  his  gapinf  country 
cousms  around  the  "fair."    And  he  |ave  to  the  e. 
pedUion  an  a.r  of  adventurous  dare-deviltry,  of  you  h- 
ful  self.sufflc:ency  and  hope,  that  kept  Don  and  C.  n 
roy  m  a  continual  flutter  of  excitement  desp.te     ". 
bewilderment  of  their  strange  surroundings  that  wouW 
otherwise,  have  disheartened  them  ' 

thll  ^•n''!f '  '°'''"^'  '^'  "^"y  ^^'^  been  like  one  of 
h  s    w, Id  dreams  in  which  disconnected  scenes  with! 

pa  t  in  In  ""f-  ""'*"*'  "'*°"*  -nsequence  follow 
Clf  r^r  i".°^  ^'^"*"'^'  '^^  snap-shotted  bv 
iteelf  w.th  the  distinctness  of  an  isolated  experience 

tTe  nTxf  rfl''.  '^^^'^  ^-  P'-.  -  a  flash^: 
tne  next.    And  this  was  true  not  only  of  the  railway 

joumey-with  its  fields  and  houses,  fences  and  r  IdT 

whippmg  past  his  window,  like  the  telegraph  poles 

city  which  he  approached  across  a  Dantesque  black 
water  m  which  the  lights  of  the   feny-boat  re^^ed 

engulfed  them-a  medieval  city,  apparently  built  o 
a  h.ll    window  above  bla^^ing  window,  its  edge  sun 
ported  in  the  water  on  slimed  piles  and  its  Lwl 
m.^ter.usyaa,k, gainst  a  wan  sky  without  a  Z 
He  went  to  bed,  that  night,  amid  uneasy  millions 


'W 


THE  IDEALIST  177 

of  strange  peoples,  on  a  continent  of  crowded  houses 
and  stone  streets  that  was  barren  of  grass  and  trees 
or  the  sod  m  which  they  could  take  root  or  the  naturL 
l.^ht  to  grow  them.  He  saw  Margaret  and  the  S 
ver..y  and  the  life  he  had  lived,  as  far  from  him  as 
Penelope  and  Ithaca  were  from  the  Grecian  wandere' 
0  the  school  books  when  he  looked  back  at  the  meX 
of  his  home  from  the  lurid  half-light  of  Hadr    ^ 

r=jtt----^iS;;:- 

Hk  woke  to  a  sunshine  which  made  him  feel  that 

n  sS'  a  b"u  *"'  T  *'*  "''  *""•"■-  world  thoS 
o  f,  H  ^.,'';"'"''«""gJy  °ew  part  of  it;  and  ke  woke 
to  hnd  Putsey  already  planning  their  housekeepW 
-th  an  almost  "bridal  enthusiasm,"  as  he  hS 

of  ll!p*w°*J"^'T  "^™"'  ^^'"^  ^''^"Kh  the  remainder 
il  .T    ''f'^"^^'^  by  the  size  of  the  city  whth 
.y  had  undertaken  to  carry  by  a^ault.   It  fonnl 
"era  three  rooms  on  the  top  floor  of  an  old  brown 

one  of  those  streets  leading  into  Fifth  Avenue  which 
ave  long  smce  been  overtaken  by  the  encroachments   ' 

A  publisher  of  cheap  music  occupied  the  ground  floor 


178 


DON-A-DREAMS 


Modistes  and  milliners  crowded  the  second  story.  At 
the  rear  of  the  top  floor,  there  were  two  rooms,  lit 
with  skylights— and  a  dark  kitchen  the  size  of  a  pantry 
—to  be  had  for  $24  a  month.  These  had  once  been 
studios,  but  the  whole  house  had  fallen  into  disrepair, 
its  artistic  tenants  had  abandoned  it,  and  the  owner 
was  holding  it  and  its  neighbors  for  sale  to  any  specu- 
lator who  might  wish  to  pull  it  dow^  and  put  a 
mo<lern  office  buil  •  ,  on  the  site,  he  let  the  boys 
have  the  "top  floo.  rear"  on  condition  that  they  agree 
to  accept  two  weeks'  notice  to  leave  at  any  moment. 
"Three  times  eight  are  twenty-four,"  Pittsey  calcu- 
lated.   "It  suits  us  to  the  fraction  of  a  cent." 

"The  rooms  ar6  not  very  large,"  Conroy  said  doubt- 
fully. 

"They  're  not  large  enough  for  exercise,  that  's 
certain,"  Pittsey  replied.  "But  they  build  them  small 
in  New  York  to  leave  more  room  for  exercise  out  of 
doors."  And  the  joke  served  to  carry  them  over  a 
doleful  examination  of  their  poverty-stricken  apart- 
ment. 

The  stairs,  as  thej-  went  down,  were  bare  as  far  as 
the  next  landing.  Below,  they  were  slippery  with  a 
worn  linoleum.  The  last  flight  was  more  prosperously 
covered  with  a  new  cocoa  matting.  "It  looks  like  the 
gradual  reappearance  of  vegetation  in  a  descent  of 
the  Alps,"  Pittsey  laughed.  They  had  to  laugh  with 
him. 

They  swept  up  the  plaster  of  a  fallen  ceiling  in  the 
rear  room,  mopped  the  uneven  floor,  and  scraped  the 
dirt  from  the  windows  until  Pittsey  stopped  them. 
("Be  economical,"  he  said.     "If  you  take  that  stuff 


THE  IDEALIST  179 

off,  we  '11  have  to  buy  blinds.")     They  shopped  to- 
Betlier  in  department  stores   and  the  "emporiums" 
(if  second-hand    furniture,    buying   three   camp    cots 
for  $1.87  each,  a  dining-room  table   for  $3.00,  four 
kitchen  chairs-"  one  for  company  "-at  75  cents  each, 
cotton    blankets,    excelsior    mattresses,    cotton-batting 
fomfortables,  blue  china  dishes,  knives  and  forks  with 
wooden  handles,  kitchen  utensils  of  tin,  some  han-Wg 
shelves  for  their  library  and  a  blank  book  for  kt 
accounts  "on  a  basis  of  three."    They  celebrated  t...a- 
house-warming  with  a  dinner  of  potatoes  boiled  in  their 
"jackets,"  steak  served  in  the  pan  in  which  it  had 
been  fried,  fresh  bread  and  a  pat  of  butter  in  the 
trrocer's  wooden  dish.    They  ate  from  a  spread  of  news- 
papers in  lieu  of  a  table-cloth.    And  they  laughed  so 
heartily  at  Pittsey's  foolery  that  he  had  to  warn  them 
to  be  careful.     ("Don't  raise  the  roof.    More  of  that 
ceihng  will  be  coming  down  on  us.") 

It  was  not  until  Conroy  lit  his  pipe  that  the  sub- 
ject in  the  background  of  all  their  thoughts  was 
brought  out  into  the  conversation.  "Well,"  he  said, 
"to-morrow  we  start  to  look  for  work.  What  are  you 
going  to  do,  Pitt?" 

"Me?  I  'm  going  to  start  a  newspaper  article  for 
a  Saturday  'supplement'  on  Camping  Out  in  New 
i'ork  City.    How  about  you?" 

Conroy  reddened.  "I  think  I  know  enough  about 
the  governor's  business  to  be  able  to  get  something  all 
right.    What  are  you  going  to  do,  Don?" 

Don    answered,    truthfully:    "I    don't    know       I 
have  n't  decided  yet." 
The  fact  of  the  matter  was  that  his  knowledge  of 


180 


DON-A-DREAMS 


the  working  world  was  so  vague  and  his  qualifications 
for  any  position  in  it  so  uncertain  that  a  decision  was 
impossible.  There  was  plenty  of  work  to  be  had ;  that 
was  evident  from  the  number  of  advertisements  (if 
"Help  Wanted— Male"  in  the  morning  papers.  He 
had  made  secret  notes  of  several  possibilities:  a  busi- 
ness "concern"  needed  a  man  to  manage  a  shop,  "ex- 
perience unnecessary,"  salary  "to  begin"  $20  a  wci-k; 
a  large  wholesale  firm  needed  a  man  of  education  to 
act  as  secretary,  salary  $25  a  week;  a  dozen  employ- 
ment agencies  on  Sixth  Avenue  advertised,  in  chalk, 
on  blackboards  beside  their  doors,  for  household  serv- 
ants, clerks  and  stenographers,  hotel  help  and  private 
secretaries.  He  shrank  from  the  personal  servitude 
which  most  of  these  vacancies  required;  he  hoped  to 
find  some  man  of  large  affairs,  like  his  uncle,  who 
needed  an  honest  rind  faithful  young  deputy  to  at- 
tend to  the  minor  details  of  business  management 
which  the  head  of  the  hcu'-e  might  be  unable  to  over- 
see personally.  He  was  assured  of  one  thing:  no 
matter  what  his  need,  he  would  accept  no  position  in 
which  Margaret  could  be  ashamed  to  find  him. 

All  his  thoughts  of  her  had  some  such  tinge  of 
defensive  bitterness.  He  would  work  out  his  own 
salvation,  unassisted  by  the  encouragement  which  he 
had  hoped  to  have  from  her.  He  would  see  to  it  that 
she  should  have  no  cause  to  be  glad  of  her  desertion  of 
him.  He  would  work  for  her  and  wait  for  her,  but 
he  would  never  tell  her  so,  again. 

"Well,"  Pittsey  said,  "let  'a  see  where  we  stand." 
He  cleared  a  place  on  the  table  for  the  account  book 


THE  IDEALIST  181 

and  adde'd  up  their  expenditures.  Their  fumighing 
had  cost  them  $12  each ;  the  supply  of  food  in  their 
larder,  $3.10;  their  month's  rent,  $8  each;  their 
deposit  to  the  gas  company,  $5;  tips  and  sundries, 
$1.25.  "There  you  are!  For  less  than  twenty-five 
dollars  each,  we  're  set  up  for  life-rent  paid  for  a 
month  and  money  out  at  interest  with  the  gas  company. 
And  unless  we  get  gold-bricked  we  can  live,  now,  for 
$3  a  week  each. ...  eh?"  he  crowed.  "How  's  yon  for 
management?" 

Don  was  making  a  rapid  calculation  that  he  had 
enough  money  of  his  own  to  keep  him  for  six  months 
at  least.  Conroy  had  laid  a  ten-dollar  bill  beside  his 
plate  and  was  searching  his  pockets  for  more.  "What 
the  dickens,"  he  muttered  in  his  pipe.  "I  must  have 
lost—" 

Pittsey  enjoyed  the  situation.  "I  know!  I  know  the 
feeling.  Where  did  it  go,  eh?  Where  did  it  go? 
Refrain:  'But  what  has  become  of  last  year's  snow?' 
I  '11  write  a  ballad  for  one  of  the  weekly  comics  on 
It."  He  made  a  note  on  the  back  of  an  envelope  from 
his  pocket. 

"That  's  all  right.  Con,"  Donald  put  in.  "I  '11 
carry  your  proportion  until  you  get  things  going." 
They  repaid  Pittsey  what  he  had  expended  for  them. 
He  accepted  it  jocularly.  "Now,  I  'm  the  chef,  you 
know,"  he  said,  "but  you  two  have  to  wash  up.  Get 
to  work.  We  're  going  out  to  see  the  sights  of  a  great 
city,  as  soon  as  you  've  finished." 

' '  You  go,  Don, ' '  Conroy  said.    "  I  '11  dean  up  here. ' ' 
They  looked  at  him,  surprised.    He  had  an  expression 


» 


182 


DON-A-DREAMS 


of  nervous  despondence.    "I  'm  timl,"  he  explainod, 
hastily.    "I  'd  sooner  go  to  bed  early." 

And  Don  understood  that  the  fear  of  the  city, 
aeainst  which  he  himself  had  been  flshtinj?,  had  found 
Conroy  the  weaker  in  spite  of  his  greater  physical 
strength. 

Don   went   out   alone    in   the   morning— Conroy   ex- 
cusing himself  with  the  plea  that  he  had  some  letters 
to  write-and  he  proceeded  first  to  the  address  of  a 
mining  company  that  had  advertised  for  an  educated 
young  man  to  do  desk  work.    It  was  a  glorious  Jlay 
morning,  warm  with  sunlight  and  cool  with  a  Iic;ht 
breeze;  and  the  crowded  pavements  were  noisy  with 
a  joyful  activity  that  seemed  to  move  to  the  gay  tunes 
of  street  pianos,  as  inspiringly  as  an  army  on  the 
march.     That   immense   jocundity,  which  sparkles  in 
the  clean  air  of  Manhattan  on  such  days,  inspired 
Don   as   it   inspired   the   facetious   truck-drivers  and 
cab-men    abusing    each    other    in    a    jam    of    traffic, 
the  good-natured  policeman  who  separated  them,  the 
smiling   pedestrians   who   dodged   under   the   horses' 
heads,  the  loiterers  who  paused  on  the  curb  to  grin 
und  comment,  tlie  shrill  street  gamin,  the  eager  men 
and   women    hurrying   by   on   the   walks    with   side 
glances  of  amusement— all  the  bustling  life  of  that 
thronged   island   which  seems  to   catch   from   its  sea 
breezes  some  of  the  recklessness  that  makes  sailors  so 
irresponsible,  so  apparently  care-free,  so  good-natured 
in  spite  of  their  obscure  toil  and  the  uncertainty  of 
their  fates. 


THE  IDEALIST  1«3 

Don  walked  with  a  light  stop,  watchiriK  the  liusy 
activities  of  which  he  felt  himself  a  part,  iis  pleased 
as  a  recruit  enrolled  among  veterans  and  willing  to 
accept  the  hardships  of  the  campaigns  of  labor  as 
gaily  as  they.     After  all,  this  was  life;  this  was  the 
work-field    of    civilization,    where    labor    sowed    and 
sweated;  this  was  the  place  for  a  man  to  be— not  back 
there,  among  the  college  loiterers  of  culture,  discuss- 
ing the  crops.     He  swung  into  Broadway  with  his 
head  high,  looking  for  the  number  of  the  office  build- 
ing where  he  was  to  begin  his  service.     It  was  good 
to  be  a  useful  member  of  society;  it  gave  a  man  dig- 
nity and  assurance.     Whatever  the  object  and  mean- 
ing of  life  might  be— whatever  the  port  to  which  all 
this  bustle  was  hastening— it  was  a  man's  duty  to 
pull  on  his  oar  with  his  fellows  below  on  the  benches, 
not  to  loaf  on  deck  vainly  studying  the  impenetrable 
mi.,oS  that  surrounded  him. 

He  mounted  the  stone  steps  of  his  building  and 
passed  between  red  granite  pillars  into  a  hall  of  tiles 
and  mosaics.  A  semi-circle  of  elevators  sucked  in  and 
poured  out  two  trickling  streams  of  passengers  coming 
and  going.  A  young  man  in  a  braided  blue  uniform 
gave  them  the  word  to  start,  with  a  curt  "Three! 
Go  on.  Seven !  .  .  .  One ! ' ' 

Don  asked  him:  "What  floor  is  the  Phoenix  Com- 
pany on?" 

He  dismissed  another  car  before  he  replied :  "Then;  's 
about  'steen  hundred  of  you  fellahs  up  there  already, 
all  after  one  job.  You  could  n't  get  out  of  the  cage  if 
you  went  up.    You  might  's  well  go  an'  chase  yourself 


184  DON-A-DBEAMS 

arnnnd  the  block  for  an  hour  or  two  till  they  kill  a  fnw 
million  of  them  off.  Go  ahead,  Nine!"  ^  ""'"  ^'^ 
^^U..n  heHitated-naid  meekly,  -Thanks"-and  went 

The  roar  of  traffic  greeted  him  with  «  new  note  of 

ZTl  ""f  ""'*''  ^•"•"'  ^«y  '"  «"'-°'  "ntil  a  Z. 

Td  JntT  '"*"  ^™  "••""  ''«'''°'^'  »i-hievouB  ; 
and  sent  h.m  mto  the  current  of  passers-by.  He  was' 
earned  down  the  street  to  an  eddy  at  L  eorn." 
There  he  took  out  his  notes  of  "Help  Wanted  "  ob"  v 
>ous  to  the  "Pulish,  sir?  P„,i,hr-  of  a  Ltblaek 
whose  chairs  wen-  under  the  shelter  of  an  awnTn.- 
fces.de  h,m.     He  found  the  address  of  the  buirne"; 

eoncem"  that  needed  a  man  to  manage  its  shop  and 
hav,ng  .nquired  the  way  of  the  insistent  polishe'r,  he 
set  out  again  more  soberly.  ' 

The  business  "concern"  proved  to  be  the  basement 
worksTiop  of  a  little  foreigner,  in  vanish-stained  apron 

sold  'S  '*"^,?'T''  -•>"  ^novated  furniture'and 
sold  antiques."  He  explained  eagerly  that  he  had 
invented  and  patented  a  new  process  of  "tuf  ing" 
upholstery,  and  he  needed  a  man  to  push  the  patent 

ma  confused  but  animated  dialect,  on  the  money^ 
maJtmg  possibuiues"  of  his  machine,  puffing  out  hi, 
cheeks  and  waving  his  hands.     Of  course, 'he  woul. 
have  to  have  a  guarantee When  Don,  at  last 

to  put      fife  hundcred"  dollars  into  the  patent    he 
merely  shook  his  head  and  left  the  man  gesticulating 


THE  IDEALIST  185 

The  8un  was  hot.     Hi,  heels  were  sore  with  the 
jKrring  of  the  flagstone  sidewalk.s.    He  went  despond- 
.ntly  back  through  inic.    linablc  and  noisy  streets,  to 
the  next  address  in  his  ..otes;  and  he  was  glad  to  sit 
■n  an  outer  office  there,  among  a  score  of  other  an- 
phpfints  for  the  vacancy,  until  his  turn  should  conu. 
t()  enter  to  the  manager.     Some  of  his  rivals  were  as 
.vdung  as  he,  but  dressed  with  a  cheap  smartness,  their 
trousers  turned  up  at  the  ankles  stylishly,  their  col- 
lars  high  a-uove  "puff"  ties  that  concealed  the  absence 
"f  H  starched  shirtfront.     Some  were  elder  men,  piti- 
ably  V    I.  and  patient  in  their  exiressicms  and  their 
attitude,      .at  with  the  neatness  of  poverty  that  tries 
to  maintain   a   good   app,»aranee   in   clothes   brushed 
threadbare.     Some  were  stolid  youths,  in  bagged  and 
wrinkled  trousers,  in   shoes  worn  down  at  the  heel 
frankly  poor  and  indifJerent  to  it.     One  was  a  con' 
sumptive  with  an  echoing  cough   which  he  tried  to 
cover,   mechanically,   behind  the   long  fingers  of  his 
clerk's  hand,  his  eyes  fixed   on  the  blank  wail   that 
taccd  him,  apparently  unconscious  of  the  hollow  up- 
roar  which  burst  from  him  with  an   irritating  fre- 
(lucncy  on  the  silence. 

The  manager  appeared  sjddenly  at  the  door,  over 
the  shoulders  of  a  rejected  applicant,  and  announced 
«-.th  exasperation:  "Now,  there  's  no  use  your  waiting 
I'ere  if  you  have  n't  had  experience.  We  want  an 
experienced  man.  ^  told  you  that  before.  And  you 
must  have  references.  I  '11  not  taH  anyone  without 
!,'ood  references." 
Don  took  up  his  hat  and  withdrew  apologetically. 


'8«  DONA-DREAMS 

Ho  went  back  to  tli,  roonw  for  luncheon.  <lri. -i,,- 
his  Hteps.  A  Dtrtft  piano  tried  to  cheer  him;  he"i«iw 
the  pernpirnfion  on  the  face  of  the  lean  Italian  woniiiii 
who  strained  at  the  crank. 


II 

He  received  a  letter  from  MarRaret,  that  afternnon, 
and  he  reail  it  standing  in  the  portico  of  the  lii-nenil 
Post  Office,  where  the  truffle  of  Park  Row  me.tH  lli,. 
traffic  of  Broadway,  in  a  brawlinj;  of  cross-cum'iKs 
over  worn  pavinj?  stones,  at  the  bottom  of  a  cany.m 
of  hiffh  buildinRS;  and  with  that  noise  in  his  enrs 
pressinK  upon  him  the  sense  of  tlic  struKt-'Ie  in  whii^li 
he  was  engnKcd,  he  read  her  accusations,  her  defense 
and   her  apology   blankly,   wortl  after  word,   feelin;,' 
that  it  was  all  an  old  matter  of  which  he  had  lost  tli^ 
eniotion.    He  took,  with  relief,  the  news  that  she  wiis 
going  abroad   for  the  summer,  with  her  mother;  it 
would  give  him  time  to  "find  his  feet"  in  New  York 
He  missed  a  hint  that  Mrs.  Richardson's  investments 
had  been  ill-advised  and  unprofitable,  and  that  the 
cheaper  living  in  Germany-where  the  study  of  musie 
might  be  continued— would  be  welcome  to  her.     He 
put  the  letter  in  an  outer  pocket,  with  his  newspaper, 
and  tore  open  an  envelop  from  his  father. 

Mr.   Gregg  informed   him,   briefly,   that  his  action 
had  been  a  cause  of  great  grief  to  his  mother;  that 


THE  IDEALIST 


187 


it  was  iimviimiimlili.,  without  excuw,  and  rash;  that  hi» 
luuif  wuN  wiiiliiiK  for  him  whotifvor  hi-  wiMhf.l  to  re- 
turn to  it,  but  that  he  HhcmM  have  no  amiKtancc  if 
ho  ruinain.'d  away.  "I  eon  scarcely  iR.lieve,"  he  wrote, 
■that  n  Bon  of  mine  will  prefer  to  live  on  thr  charity 
uf  relatives.  A  kikmI  ponitlon  can  lie  obtained  for  you 
ill  Coulton.  If,  at  any  time,  you  desire  to  come  back 
111  It,  and  have  not  funds,  write  to  me  and  I  shall  be 
KJad  to  forward  you  your  railro«<|  ticket." 

Don  tore  up  the  letter  and  tossed  it  into  the  nutter 
^is  he  crossed  the  street.  No!  He  was  launched. 
I'.iulton  ami  the  past  had  already  dropped  below  the 
horizon  behind  him.  And  he  could  not  hope  to  have 
.AlarKarct  with  him  again  until  he  reached  that  shore 
"!•  his  destiny  which  was  still  so  distant,  ho  uncertain 
so  far  bcyoml  sight  of  fancy  even  He  knew  that  thi' 
vi.yage  was  not  going  to  be  pla  sailing  ir  a  fair 
wind;  there  would  be  calms  and  storms  an;  .11  the 
delays  and  accidents  of  life.  But  some  day, or  aurse. 
h,'  would  arrive;  and  th(-n  (he  thought),  looking  back 
lit  the  hardships  and  the  despaira,  how  sorry  he  should 
he  that  they  were  done  with,  and  how  proud  that  he 
hud  weathered  them,  and  how  amused  to  ivmember 
that  he  had  almost  given  up  hope  under  them,  that 
It  had  seemed  impossible  they  could  ever  come  to  an 
end,  that  he  had  longed  for  this  peaceful  conclusion 
wh.eh  was  now  so  tame  a  day  compared  with  the  ad- 
venturous struggles  that  had  brought  him  to  it. 

I.v  that  mood  he  continued  his  unsuccessful   search 
for  employment.    Learning  the  need  of  "references," 


li 


^88  DON-A-DREAMS 

he  wrote  to  his  uncle  and  to  the  Dean  of  the  Uni 
vereity,  and  received  the  conventional  replies      But 
these  were  of  no  avail  to  introduce  him  to  work  for 
which  he  hal  no  particular  qualifications,  in  a  city 
of  which  he  had  had  no  experience,  over  rivals  who 
had  none  of  his  shamefacedness  and  who  elbowed  him 
out  of  the  way  with  a  pushing  self-assertion  that  made 
him  blush  for  them.     He  answered  eveiy  likely  ad 
vertisement  and  registered  with  three  different  em- 
ployment  agencies  that  accepted  his  $2  fee  one  dav 
and  appeared  to  have  forgotten  him  on  the  morrow 
and  he  clung  to  his  hopes  with  a  doggedness  that 
would  not  admit  discouragement.    But  he  becamo  sore 
with  a  sort  of  sulky  pride,  refusing  to  unbend  tu  the 
degrading  necessities  of  his  situation;  and  he  made 
his  applications  for  work  as  haughtily  as  a  shop-girl 
who  has  been  asked  to  show  samples  and  who  answers 
ai.  her  customer's  inquiries  laconically,  with  a  studied 
mdifference. 

Meanwhile,  Conroy  had  become  morosely  apathetic 
He  Mt  in  their  rooms  smoking  at  a  window  that 
looked  out  on  dead  walls.  He  wrote  letters  to  which 
he  never  seemed  to  get  any  replies.  He  went  out 
silently,  and  after  being  on  the  streets  for  hours  he 
came  back  to  his  meals  tired  but  without  any  appetite  ■ 
and  in  conversation  with  Pittsey,  he  betrayed  an  idler's 
acqciamtanee  with  the  sights  of  the  waterfront 
and  the  Ghetto.  He  accepted  money  from  Don  un- 
happily, unable  to  meet  his  cousin's  eyes;  and  he  tried 
to  make  hmiself  useful  by  doing  more  than  his  share 
of  the  housework,  by  washing  the  dishes  when  the 
other  boys  were  out,  and  by  bringing  Italian  cheeses 


THE  IDEALIST 


189 


and  Chinese  preserves  back  with  him  from  his  long 
shsences.  Once  he  bought  a  bottle  of  liquid  polish 
and  blackened  the  gas  stove. 

In  spite  of  Pittsey's  efforts  to  keep  up  a  cheerful 
spirit  in  the  apartment,  their  meals  became  "lugubri- 
ous feeds"  as  he  complained.  "What  'a  wrong  with 
,vou  two?"  he  remonstrated.  "Here  you  are,  seeing 
New  York  inexpensively,  with  all  the  comforts  of 
home!  And  you  're  down  in  the  mouth  because  a 
Wall  street  millionaire  has  n't  oflfered  you  a  partner- 
ship and  a  private  yacht.  What  do  you  expect?  Look 
at  me.  If  I  went  to  Newspaper  Row  asking  for  work, 
I  'd  never  get  past  the  office  boys  at  the  doors.  But 
if  I  send  in  an  article  through  the  mail,  and  an  editor 
likes  it,  I  get  a  little  check.  If  I  do  it  again,  I  have 
an  iatroduction  to  Mr.  Editor.  I  keep  it  up.  In  six 
months  I  begin  to  ask  for  a  place  on  the  staff.  You 
two  start  by  asking  for  the  place  first,  and  give  up 
hope  when  the  office  boy  says  'Nothin'  doin'.'  What 
do  you  expect?  Miracles?  Don't  be  so  blamed  un- 
reasonable. You  're  not  the  heroes  of  a  novel,  you 
know;  impossibilities  are  n't  going  to  happen  to  you 
just  to  help  out  the  plot !" 

He  was  rolling  out  cracker  crumbs  with  a  milk 
bottle  preparatory  to  baking  a  dish  of  what  he  called 
"tomato  slush."  Conroy  was  cleaning  smelts  with  a 
penknife.    Don  was  laying  the  table. 

Conroy  said:  "Oh,  you   're  all  right.     You  have 
something  to  sell.    I  have  nothing  and  I  'm  in  debt." 
"You  need  n't  worry  about  that,"  Don  put  in. 
"The  money  's  as  much  yours  as  mine." 
"How?  .  .  .  How  is  it?" 


190  DON-A-DREAMS 

"Well-I  Ve  saved  it  out  of  what  I  borrowed  from 
Aunt  Jane,  this  winter." 

"Yes,butit  'sj/o«r«.  To «  borrowed  it."  He  tossed 
a  smelt  into  the  pan,  with  a  resigned  bitterness.  "Thev 
refuse  to  lend  me  a  cent." 

Don,  his  ears  tingling,  pretendetl  te  be  silently  ab- 

of   the  'diffi     .r"'T.  "'  '"'  *'""^'  •«=  foresaw 'one 
ot    the   difficulties   that   would   develop   out   of   this 

h  hked  the  double  part  which  he  would  have  to  plaj 
His  ife  seemed  to  him  to  be  becoming  confus  ngiy 
complex  with  this  duplicity  in  his  relatfon  with  Con 
roy  and  with  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  work  by  a 

pursuit  of  a  place  on  a  newspaper  seemed  to  him  too 
patiently  crafty.  There  wa«  something  degrading  n 
such  a  crawling  policy.  ^ 

This  was  of  a  piece  with  the  Quixotism  which  had 
kept  him  going,  day  after  day,  to  old  Mr.  Vandever  the 
philanthropic  agent  of  an  anonymous  millionaire  who 
was  in  need  of  a  private  secretary-according  to  Mr 
Vandever-and  who  had  commissioned  Mr.  Vandever 
among  other  things,  to  find  a  suitable  young  man  f ,; 

MrTJr      "  T  ^''  '^"^  ''''  waiting-room  inL 
SoIh       \'  '  °^'''  "''  *°  '^^PP'^"!  but  when  he 

nt  old"  :,  *'''■"'  '".  '^^^  ''"'""'  ''y  that  benev. 
olent  old  gentleman  with  a  quick  smile  of  relief 
ha    was  an  unspoken  acceptance  of  him  as  the  single 

Whnh!T  r"*    """""'    ""    ''''"'    '"P^-ible    ones. 
When  he  had  given  up  his  $3  registration  fee-"  which 


THE  IDEALIST  igj 

wss  unfortunately  necessary   in  order  to  pay  office 
rent'  -he  went  out  a  side  door  warmed  by  the  mild 
kindlmess  of  Mr.  Vandever's  manner,  touched  by  the 
charming  tenderness  of  his  old  smile,  and  hopeful 
with  the  assurance  that  his  application  would  be  suc- 
cessful "without  doubt-without  reasonable  doubt  " 
llr.  Vandever  would  write  to  him.     When  no  letter 
came,  and  two  subsequent  calls  failed  to  carry  him 
past  the  girl  who  had  her  desk  beside  the  outer  door- 
but  showed  him  the  office  still  crowded  in  response 
to  the  advertisement  which  still  stood  in  the  morning 
papm-he  refused  to  credit  the  suspicion  which  he 
c««ld  not  help  but  feel.     For  if  an  old  man,  genial 
educated,     fine-mannered,    sweet-faced    and    silvery- 
haired,  could  be  a  thief  and  a  hypocrite,  then  the 
whole  world  could  be  a  gigantic  swindle,  there  could 
be  no  faith  in  anyone,  and  the  sunlight  on  the  streets 
would  be  a  gilding  of  depravity  to  make  the  heart  sick 
Don  could  not  believe  it;  or,  rather,  instinctively,  he 
would  not.    He  preferred  to  keep  his  faith  in  his  kind 
When  his  last  call  found  Mr.  Vandever's  office  to  let 
he  went  away  without  asking  any  questions,  for  fear 
that  he  might  hear  something  snameful. 

''Besides,"  Pittsey  went  on-dipping  the  smelts  in 
milk  and  rolling  them  in  flour-"  this  is  the  beginning 
of  the  summer,  the  dull  season.  Every  firm  in  town 
IS  laying  off  men.  You  should  get  your  hooks  into 
something  now,  and  be  ready  to  land  it  in  the  fall 
Here,  Donald  MacDonald,  get  to  work  and  make  us 
some  toast.  Do  you  know  which  side  of  the  bread  to 
brown?" 


192 


DON-A-DREAMS 


No,"  Don  answered  simply. 
"Both  sides."    Pittsey  laughed.    "You  're  the  poor- 
est   pair  of  kitchen  apprentices   I  ever  saw  "     He 
bustled   around,    with   the    deftness   of  a   restaurant 
waiter,  adding  forgotten  dishes  to  the  table,  watching 
the     tomato  slush"  browning  in  the  oven,  or  turning 
his  smelts  in  the  sputtering  frying  pan.     "Cut  your 
bread  thicker,"  he  directed  Don.     "Your  toast  will 
be  as  dry  as  cinders  ...  Go  out  and  buy  us  the  squeeze 
of  a  lemon,"  he  ordered  Conroy.     "Three  for  five 
they  should  be.    I  'd  make  you  a  fish  sauce,  if  I  had 
a  recipe  .  .  .  When  I  graduate  out  of  newspaper  work 
into  literature,  the  first  book  I  write  will  be  a  cook 
book.     'Butter  the  size  of  an  egg.'  "    He  dropped  a 
slice  of  ,t  into  his  frying  pan.     "That   's  how  the 
eonamon  cook  books  put  it.     And  you   're  supposed 
to  know  It  was  a  hen  and  not  an  ostrich  that  laid  the 
egg!    I  '11  change  all  that  ...  Not  on  the  top,  you 
clam!     Your  toast  will  taste  like  a  gasometer.     Do 
It  in  the  lower  oven,  on  the  broiler.    Put  it  up  close 
to  the  flame." 

The  walls  of  the  shabby  dining-room  had  been  cov- 
ered  with  posters,  gathered  by  the  enterprising  Pittsey 
from  news-stands  and  book-shops.  Between  the  win- 
dows-where  a  leaking  roof  had  discolored  the  plaster 
-he  had  tacked  up  a  collection  of  printed  "letters 
of  rejection"  which  had  come  to  him,  with  returned 
manuscripts,  from  newspaper  offices  and  the  editors 
of  magazines.  Don's  student  lamp  lit  the  table,  with 
Its  "print  table-cloth"  (as  Pittsey  called  the  spread 
ol  newspapers),  its  sugar  in  a  tobacco  tin,  its  milk 


THE  IDEALIST  193 

in  a  bottle,  its  "poorhouse"  dishes  and  its  unpainted 
kitchen  chairs.  But  the  place  had  come  to  have  a 
home-like  and  familiar  look  to  Don;  and  it  had,  for 
him,  a  tone  of  youthful  defiance  of  adversity  that 
was  loudest  in  Pittsey's  contemptuous  display  of  the 
editor's  regrets  that  they  had  not  found  his  contribu- 
tions "available." 

Having  put  his  bread  in  the  oven,  Don  stood  befc-o 
these  letters  with  the  smile  which  they  always  encour- 
aged in  him.  He  wished  that  he  might  add  to  them 
similar  letters  from  all  the  offices  at  which  he  had 
applied  for  work;  they  would  fill  the  wall!  When 
Pittsey  became  famous-as  he  would,  of  course,  some 
(lay— what  a  comment  on  editorial  incapacity  this  col- 
lection would  be ! 

Pittsey  put  his  head  in  the  door.  "Excuse  me  for 
intruding,  King  Alfred,"  he  said,  "but  I  thought  you 
might  like  to  know  that  your  toast  's  in  flames." 


Ill 


OoN  found  no  work  that  he  could  do.  Conroy, 
obviously,  was  no  longer  even  looking  for  any.  And 
when  Pittsey  at  last  sold  a  "special"  to  a  Saturday 
"supplement,"  the  sight  of  his  $8  check -received  in 
the  morning  mail  and  produced  triumphantly  at  the 
breakfast  table-was  like  the  first  nugget  to  a  camp 
of  despairing  prospectors.  "Money!"  he  gloated. 
"Eight  of  them!     Hully  Qcc,  look  at  it,  boys!    The 


194 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


real  thing!  Would  you  cash  it  or  have  it  framed! 
The  'Nassau  National.'  Do  you  suppose  they  're  good 
for  it!" 

The  others  were  smiling  doubtfully,  between  pleas- 
ure in  his  success  and  envy  of  it.  He  understood  the 
expression.  "There  's  millions  where  that  came 
from,"  he  said,  "and  all  you  need  is  a  pen  to  dig  out 
some.  Why  don't  you  get  after  it!  Why  don't  you 
write  up  the  adventures  of  a  poor  but  honest  young 
man  looking  for  a  job  in  a  great,  big  city,  eh!" 

There  was  no  reason  why  they  did  not— except,  per- 
haps, that  they  could  not. 

"Give  ovah!"  Pittsey  retorted.  "Any  man  can 
write  'if  he  only  abandons  his  mind  to  it.'  Get  a  pad 
of  frei"!  white  paper  and  let  yourself  go.  Tou  might 
as  well  be  doing  something  while  you  're  not  refusing 
applications  for  your  valuable  services  down  town. 
Try  it." 

They  tried  it.  Conroy  gave  it  up  after  a  morning 
spent  biting  the  end  of  his  pen-handle,  his  fae^  as 
blank  as  his  paper;  he  was,  apparently,  too  home-sick 
and  dispirited  to  have  a  thought  of  anything  else. 
Don  p  rsisted,  tutored  by  Pittsey,  who  groaned  in 
private  over  the  stilted  English  and  the  philosophic 
stodginess  of  his  pupil's  work.  "Put  some  ginger  into 
it,"  he  counseled.  "This  is  as  tame  as  if  you  'd 
written  it  for  old  Cotton.  A  newspaper  does  n't  want 
a  'not-only-but-also'  thesis  on  the  subject.  It  wants 
some  facts.  If  you  have  n't  any,  make  some  up.  You 
might  have  written  this  without  ever  seeing  New  York 
or  an  emplojTnent  agency.  Are  n't  some  of  them 
fakes— some  of  the^j  agencies!" 


-»" 


THE  IDEALIST 


195 


Don  said  he  did  not  know.    He  objected  that  he  did 
not  wish  to  write  himself  up-his  own  experiences 
"Why  not?" 
"I  don't  know." 

The  fac'  was-as  Pittsey  slowly  learned-Don  had 
an  obstinate  delicacy  that  shrank  from  putting  any 
of  his  own  emotions  into  print.  He  could  not  look 
into  his  heart  and  write,  as  the  poet  directed.  He 
wrote,  as  he  would  talk  to  a  stranger,  in  generalities 
'•in  twaddle"  as  Pittsey  complained,  with  a  masculine 
reticence  m  all  things  that  concerned  himself. 

"Well,  go  ahead,"  Pittsey  said,  at  last.  "Do  it 
your  own  way." 

He  went  ahead  for  three  weeks,  without  a  glimmer 
of  encouragement  and  really  without  a  chance  of  suc- 
cess. And  then  he  confessed,  blushing:  "Anyway,  I 
don't  see  the  use  of  writing  stuff  like  this.  I  don't 
see  why  anyone  should  care  to  read  it.  It  does  n't 
really  mean  anything  to  anybody,  does  it?" 

"It  's  one  way  of  earning  a  living,"  Pittsey 
countered. 

"I  know,  but-Well,  if  a  man  's  really  working, 
if  he  's  only  sawing  wood  or  cleaning  the  streets  or 
driving  a  wagon,  he  's  doing  something  that  has  to 
be  (lone.  He  's  helping  things  along-the  world,  you 
know— civilization.    He  's— " 

Pittsey  ]nterrupted  him  with  high  laughter 
Well,  you  are  a  joke!  You  're  the  funniest  ever! 
Let  the  world  get  along  any  way  it  pleases.  It  's  your 
getting  along  that  concerns  you." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Don  mumbled,  "but-I  don't  care. 
It  does  n't  seem  worth  while  to  me." 


196 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


"Don't  do  it,  then!" 

' '  Well,  perhaps  I  would,  if  I  could.  I  don 't  know . . . 
I  can't,  anyway." 

"Have  you  found  anything  better?" 

Don  shook  his  head.  "What  's  Con  doing!  Ddis 
he  over  tell  you?" 

Pittsey  made  a  significant  movement  of  his  hand  to 
his  lips,  throwing  back  his  head. 

Don  whispered,  aghast:   "Drinking?" 

Pittsey  nodded,  with  a  tolerant  smile  for  Don's 
blindness.  "Don't  tell  him  I  told  you.  He  's  lost 
his  nerve." 


It  was  late  that  evening.  Pittsey  had  gone  to  gather 
material  for  an  article  on  "Amateur's  Night"  in  a 
Bowery  theatre.  Conroy  had  been  sitting  beside  the 
dining  table  for  hours,  smoking  sourly,  his  feet  on  a 
chair  before  him  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  toes  of  his 
shoes.  Don  had  been  preparing  to  speak  to  him,  cover- 
ing his  irresolution  by  pretending  to  write  a  letter  while 
he  was  trying  to  make  up  his  mind  how  to  begin. 

He  had  asked:  "Found  anything  to  do.  Con?".  Con- 
roy had  grunted:  "Not  a  d thing."    Aad  there 

was  no  more  to  be  said  of  that  matter. 

Ten  minutes  later,  he  had  asked:  "Heard  anythini! 
from  home?"  And  Conroy  had  answered,  in  the  .same 
tone  as  before:  "Not  a  d word." 

Don  scratched  perfunctorily  at  the  letter— which,  he 
knew,  he  would  have  to  destroy.  "Have  you  written 
to  them?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 


THE  IDEALIST 


197 


•Why  should  H" 

"Don't  you  think  they  'd  like  to  hear  from  yout" 
"No." 

"Why  noti" 
Conroy  did  not  answer. 

Don  put  down  his  pen,  too  nervous  to  hold  it.    "You 
know,"  he  said,  "Unele  John  asked  me  to  look  after 
you  here.    He  'd  like  to  know  how  you  're  getting  on." 
"Write  and  tell  him  then,"  Conroy  replied  bitterly. 
"He  ought  to  be  glad  to  hear." 
"What  '11  I  tell  him'." 
"Tell  him  what  you  blame  well  .please. " 
Don  swallowed.  "That  you  're  drinking  still?" 
His  voice  went  dry  on  the  last  word.     The  silence 
stood  staring  at  him,  holding  its  breath. 

Conroy 's  head  turned  slowly,  his  jaws  shut  on  his 
pipe.  His  eyes  caught  the  glow  from  the  lamp  and 
Klistened  with  two  danger  signals  of  light  in  his  white 
face.    "What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

It  was  too  late  to  draw  back.  Don  arranged  his 
sheets  of  note-paper  with  a  hand  that  in  some  way  re- 
minded him  of  his  father's.  Then  he  said,  in  a  tense 
steadiness :  "He  blamed  me  for  not  writing  him,  at  col- 
U'iie,  about  you.  I  promised  him  I  'd  write  here.  He 
let  you  come,  on  that  condition— that  I  'd  look  after 
you,  and  let  him  know  how  you  were  getting  on." 
Conroy  flamed  up:  "Yon  mind  your  own  business." 
"That  's  my  business." 

"No,  it  is  n't!  It  is  n't  yours  and  it  is  n't  his!  He 
threw  me  off— without  a  cent — to  starve  if  I  liked— 
ihiwn  here.    What  do  1  care  about  him?" 


198 


DON-A-DREAMS 


"No,  he  did  n't.    He  iaid  he  wanted  to  (jive  you  your 
chance— not  to  take  you  home  like  'a  whipped  cur'—" 
"Who  •«  a  whipped  curt"  he  shouted. 
Don  shouted  back  at  him:  "He  said  he  did  n't  want 
you  to  be  a  whipped  cur!    I  told  him  those  fellows  at 
college  had  led  you  into  it— the  trouble.    You  said  so 
yourself.    Now,  here  you  are,  doing  the  same  thini; 
again." 
"You  're  a  liar!" 

"Well,  1  'm  not  going  to  lie  to  him.  I  'm  not  goinB 
to  be  responsible  for  you  if  you  drink." 

"You  sneak!  It  's  the  money,  is  it?  You  uant  to 
get  rid  of  me  to  save  the  miserable  dollar  a  week  you  've 
been  doling  out  to  me.  If  it  had  n't  been  for  me,  you  'd 
never  have  had  it  tj  lend." 

Don,  his  anger  exhausted,  felt  himself  oppressed  with 
a  great  weariness,  buffeted  in  this  ignoble  quarrel.  He 
put  his  hands  up  to  his  temples,  his  elbows  on  the  table, 
gone  dumb. 

Conroy  went  on,  crazily:  "You  need  n't  be  afraid. 
I  '11  pay  you  back  some  way.     If  I  don't,  you  can 
make  out  your  bill  md  collect  it  from  mother." 
Don  did  not  r,,    --. 

"Who  said  I  was  drinking?  What  concern  is  it  of 
yours— or  /its— if  I  am?  Why  does  n't  he  do  some- 
thing to  help  me  along,  if  he  's  so  blamed  anxious  about 
me?  If  you  'd  been  chucked  out,  without  a  cent,  in  a 
place  where  you  could  n't  get  a  thing  to  do,  you  'd  want 
something  too,  to— to  keep  yourself  up." 

"You  're  not  without  a  cent.  I  '11  give  you  all  the 
money  you  want,  if  you  '11  promise  not  to  spend  it 
that  way." 


THE  IDEALIST 


199 


Conroy  checked  his  fury,  to  cry,  contemptuously: 
"Where  'II  you  (?et  it?" 

"Oh,  I  '11  get  it.  .  .  All  he  wanted  .vas  to  kIvp  you 
your  chance.  You  would  n't  have  g  e  back  to  Coul- 
ton.  You  were  cominff  to  New  York,  yourself.  Now 
that  he  let  you  come,  this  is  the  way  you  behave!" 

"Is  he  sending  you  money  for  me!" 

"I  '11  not  tell  you." 

"Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  before?  Why  did  you 
pretend  you  were  lending  it  to  me  1" 

"I  did  n't.  I  told  you  it  was  as  much  yours  as 
mine." 

"He  is  sending  it." 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  When  every- 
one 's  trying  to  help  you  to— to—  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed." 

Conroy  flung  out:  "I  don't  see  that  you  're  doing 
such  a  lot.    You  have  n't  earned  a  cent  yourself." 

"No,  but  I  've  tried  to." 

"Well,  have  n't  /!    Have  n't  IV' 

"You  're  not  trying  to— lately." 

"Ah!"  Conroy  threw  out  his  hands  with  a  snarl  of 
despair.  "What  's  the  use?  I  'm  down  and  everyone 
kicks  me!  They  won't  give  me  anything  to  do.  Why 
should  they!  I  don't  know  how  to  do  anything.  I  'vc 
made  a  mess  of  my  life."    He  choked  up,  boyishly. 

"You  're  not  any  worse  off  than  I  am,"  Don  said, 
"and  /  have  n't  given  up.  Not  by  a  good  deal !  I  '11 
Kick  to  it  if  it  comes  to  selling  lead  pencils  on  the 
street  comer.  . . .  Besides,  you  can  go  home  at  Christ- 
mas, to  your  father's  ofBce,  if  you  wish  to.    You  have 


200 


DON.A-DBEAM8 


him  behind  you,  now,  if  you  'IJ  only  thow  him  that 
you-  Heaven. I"  He  looked  out  at  bii  own  future 
that  waa  yet  to  „o  made  out  of  nothing,  with  hia  own 
hands.    "  Tf  I  only  had  your  chance  I ' ' 

They  were  silent.  Conroy  smoked  with  a  vehemence 
that  subsided  to  a  more  thoughtful  puffing  of  hia  pipe 
as  ho  calmed  down  to  reason.  Don  gloomed  over  the 
8.|uares  and  circles  which  he  waa  drawing  on  bis  blotter 
in  a  bitter  idleness  of  nind.  He  recalled  hia  father's 
phrase  "the  charity  of  relatives";  Conroy  had  brought 
the  meaning  of  it  home  to  him.  Heretofore,  he  had 
had  no  thought  of  the  money;  he  had  been  working  to 
make  himself  a  place  in  the  world  that  would  be  fit  to 
ask  her  to  share  vith  him;  and  he  had  accepted  these 
"loans"  from  his  aunt  and  his  uncle  as  he  would  have 
accepted  their  good  wishes.  Now  he  faced  the  need  of 
paying  them  back,  of  freeing  himself  from  Conroy 's 
reproach,  of  earning,  immediately,  enough  to  make  him- 
self independent. 

Conroy  interrupted,  in  contrition:  "Say,  Don,  don't 
write  to  him  that  I  've  been-  I  'II  start  out  to-morrow 
morning,  and  find  something  if-if  I  have  to  bee 
I'or  it."  ^ 

Don  did  not  reply.  He  had  himself  arrived  at  the 
same  resolve. 


17 


The  first  heat  of  the  New  York  summer  had  begun  to 
oppress  the  dry  streets  with  an  intolerable  glare  of 


THE  lOEALISr 


901 


san  all  day  and  a  stifling  iluggiihnen  of  czhauited  air 
all  night ;  and  Don  dragged  himivlf  from  office  to  office 
-in  bis  heavy  clothing,  in  his  sun-greened  felt  hnt,  in 
bis  burning  winter  shoes— pale  and  spiritless.  Every- 
(iiie  in  the  city  seemed  to  be  short-tempered ;  the  motor- 
riii'n  uf  the  cable  cars,  in  their  hot  uniforms,  stamped 
iin  the  ringers  of  their  gongs;  the  drivers  lashed 
their  horses  with  whips  that  cracked  angrily  in  the 
tirrce  light;  the  crowds  on  the  sidewalks  pushed  and 
fretted  under  the  scant  shade  of  shop-front  awnings. 
It  was  the  time  of  year  when  the  police  record.-,  of 
spring  suicides  begin  to  fall  off,  and  the  tenement  house 
murilers  take  their  places  on  the  sergeants'  "blotters." 

Don  went,  jostled  and  elbowed,  up  Broadway  to  Mad- 
iiion  Square,  dnwn  by  the  sight  of  green  leaves  ahead  of 
bira.  The  working  world  no  longer  contenied  itself 
with  merely  ignoring  him ;  it  had  turned  on  him  irrita- 
bly and  shouldered  him  out  of  its  way  into  the  gut"'  ■. 
He  stopped  at  a  print-shop  window  attracvd  by  a  snow 
seme  that  reminded  him  of  Canada— a  picture  of  a 
(ifji'ctcd  wolf  on  a  hill-top  looking  down,  over  the 
drifts,  on  a  little  village  with  lighted  windows,  the 
smoke  of  kitchen  chimneys  rising  straight  and  still  in 
the  frozen  air.  And  Don  understood  the  sneaking 
(Inxip  of  that  wolf's  lean  shoulders,  and  sympathized 
with  it. 

lie  crossed  to  the  benches  under  the  trees,  to  sit 
among  the  flotsam  of  the  streets,  among  the  idlers  and 
v.Hgabonds  who  gather  into  these  stagnant  pools  of 
Broadway  traffic.  He  turned  his  back  on  the  activities 
dI'  the  pavement  and  the  sight  of  all  those  fortuuafe 


202  DON-A-DBEAMS 

beings  who  had  cause  to  be  impatient  and  in  haste  Ho 
looked  at  the  grass  and  the  leaves,  and  at  the  fountain 
that  danced  and  sparkled  mechanically  in  its  pool  of 
water  lilies,  like  something  imprisoned  there  and 
trained.  He  remembered  his  ravine  in  Coulton  and  the 
little  water-fall  that  chuckled  over  its  stones. 

He  did  not  notice  a  man  who  passed  and  repassed  him 
with  keen  glances,  studying  his  clothes,  his  shoes  his 
general  air  of  limp  discouragement.  But  he  awoke 
with  a  start  when  this  stranger  sat  down  on  the  bench 
bes.de  him  so  heavily  that  the  whole  seat  jarred;  and 
when  the  man  opened  his  newspaper  and  turned  to  the 
page  of  "want  ads,"  Don  read  the  list  out  of  the  end 
of  his  eye,  with  the  involuntary  interest  of  the  unem- 
ployed. "Never  seem  to  get  any  less,"  the  man  said 
good-naturedly. 

Don  looked  away,  ashamed  of  having  betrayed  him- 
self. 

"I  s'pose  they  're  like  that  ev'ry  day  in  the  year  " 
he  went  on.  And  when  Don  did  not  speak,  he  added 
I  know  it  's  over  a  year  since  /  looked  at  'em-an' 
there  was  just  as  many  then."  He  glanced  around  at 
Don  with  a  cheerful  impudence,  and  Don  nodded.  He 
had  colorless  eyes  under  heavy  eyebrows ;  his  check  and 
chin  were  blue-black  with  close  shaving.  "Yes  "  he 
said,  dropping  his  paper  to  his  knee,  "over  a  year  ago' 
I  was  on  the  rocks,  fer  fair-sittin'  down  in  Union 
Square  with  no  more  backbone  than  a  string  o'  fish- 
readin'  those  ads  without  expectin'  to  find  anythin'  fer 
me  either."  He  laughed.  "I  might  Ve  been  readin' 
them  yet-fer  all  the  good  it  'd  'a'  done  me.    That  's 


THE  IDEALIST 


203 


the  hell  of  it  in  this  town.  Tuh  're  on  the  other  side  o' 
the  fence,  lookin'  at  the  apples.  Yuh  can  look  at  'em 
till  yer  eyes  drop  out,  if  yuh  don't  get  a  lift  over  the 
pickets. ' ' 

Don  turned  again.  The  man  was  smiling  thoughtfully 
at  the  fountain.  "An  ol'  frien'  o'  mine  came  along 
an'  says:  'What  're  yuh  doin',  Jim?'  'DoinT  I  says. 
'Doin'  nothin'!  Carryin'  the  banner!  Poun'in'  the 
sidewalks ! '  He  says  '  Hell !  '—he  says—'  Why  don 't  yuh 
fret  to  work  ?  •  '  Why  ? '  I  says.  '  Why  don 't  I  ?  'Cause 
I  can't.  That  's  the  why!  'Cause  there  don't  seem  to 
be  any  work  to  get?'  'Been  to  see  ol'  Whitten?'  he 
asks  me.  '  Whitten  ? '  I  says. '  No !  Who  's  Whitten  ? '  He 
does  n't  say  a  word.  He  jus'  crooks  his  finger  at  me. 
'Come  along,'  he  says.  'I  '11  put  yuh  wise.'  " 

He  pushed  back  his  hat  impatiently.  "That  's  the 
hell  o'  this  town.  There  i  lots  o'  jobs  lookin'  fer 
young  fullahs  that  're  on  the  square.  The  trouble  is 
the  employers  don't  know  how  to  find  'em.  This  ol' 
guy  's  a  sort  o'  religious  crank,  an'  whenever  he  can 
pick  up  a  young  fuUah  that  's  out  o'  work  an'  goin'  to 
the  dogs,  he  puts  him  in  the  first  place  that  's  open.  A 
lot  o'  the  best  bus'ness  houses  take  their  ban's  from 
him.  Yuh  see  he  makes  in-quiries  an'  knows  his  men. 
It  ain't  charity  either.  He  makes  the  office  pay  for 
itself  by  ohargin'  five  dollars.  But  hell,  what  's  five 
dollars  when  yuh  get  a  good  thing  at  fifteen  a—" 

Don  broke  in,  clutching  at  the  opportunity,  in  a 
trembling  haste:  "Do  you  think—  I  'm— I  'm  out  of 
work.    I  'd  pay  him  anything.    I—" 
The  man  turned  with  a  slow  grin  that  brought  the 


204 


D0N-A-DBEAM8 


blood  to  Don's  face.    "  Well,  I  'm  d d!    How  did 

I  come  to  tell  y'  about  itl    Well,  I  'm  d dl"    He 

showed  tobacco-stained  teeth  in  a  wrinkled  smile.  "I 
tell  yuh  what  I  '11  do:  I  '11  take  y'  over  to  his  joint 
an'  give  y'  a  knock-down  to  him,  eh?" 

Don's  shame  passed  in  a  gratitude  that  swelled  in 
his  throat  speechlessly.  He  heard  the  man  say  "over 
on  Twelf  street,  near  Sixt'  Avenuh."  They  rose  to- 
gether. 

The  stranger  was  short  and  sturdy,  with  a  leg  that 
bowed  out  behind  him,  at  the  calf,  like  the  blade  of  a 
sickle;  and  he  walked  on  his  heels,  his  hands  in  his 
trousers'  pockets,  his  hat  slanted  down  on  his  puckered 
eyes.  He  talked  breezily.  Don  went  in  silence,  tall 
beside  him,  his  immature  shoulders  sloping  from  his 
thin  neck,  his  head  erect,  vacantly  smiling.  The  noises 
of  the  street  beat  around  him  unheard.  A  myriad  of 
woman-shoppers  rushed  back  and  forth  below  him.  His 
starved  hopes  were  gorging  themselves  in  a  blind  greed- 
iness that  saw  nothing  but  their  food. 

The  man  was  saying:  "Well,  it's  a  great  place,  ain't 
it?  Get  yer  start  here  an'  rise  to  anythin'— anythin'! 
Get  yer  start,  that  's  all!  It  's  worth  anythin'  to  get 
yer  start.  It  's  a  reg'lar  gold  mine,  once  yuh  get  yer 
pick  into  it."  He  looked  at  Don,  as  if  suspicious  of  his 
silence.  Don  appeared  to  be  wistfully  studying  the 
faces  of  the  women  as  they  passed.  "Girls  too,"  ho 
laughed.  "Good-lookers  at  that!  Get  yer  money  an' 
take  yer  choice.  An'  they  dress  to  do  yuh  proud.  Get 
yer  start,  that  's  all.  .  .  Got  any  recommends? 
Eh?    Any  letters  from  yer  las'  job?" 


THE  IDEALIST 


205 


Don  explained  that  he  had  just  left  college ;  that  tha 

only  letter  he  had  was  from  the  Dean  of  the  University. 

"What!"    He  tilted  his  hat  over  one  ear,  scratching 

his  temple,  humorously.    "A  college  education!    Well, 

I  'm  d d!  Won't  ol'  Whitten  warm  to  that!    An' 

a  Doanl  Say,  why  did  n't  yuh  get  pass-me-ons  from 
the  President  an'  Gov  uer  What's-his-name,  while  yuli 
wet  i'  This  's  easier  'n  cashin'  a  check.  What  d'  yuh 
want?  How  'd  private  secret 'ry  to  a  Pift'  Avcnuh 
mupon-cutter  do  yuh!" 

Don  laughed  rather  uncertainly.  "I  'm  afraid 
there  's  not  much  chance  of  that!" 

"Afraid!  Hell!  Afraid  nothin'!  I  wish  't  I  'd' 
liad  yer  chance  the  day  Jim  walked  me  down  here. 
Where  the—  It  was  down  aroun'  here  somewheres." 
lie  looked  up  a  side  street.  "Well,  if  he  's  moved,  we  can 
tree  him  in  the  d'rect'ry.  It  must  be  along  further." 

Don  winked  rapidly  at  the  faltering  of  his  hf  po.  The 
clatter  of  an  elevated  train  overhead  broke  in  upon  him 
with  a  return  of  the  old  jostled  discouragement  of  these 
heedless  streets.  He  read  the  signboards  as  he  walked, 
vainly  trying  to  occupy  his  mind  in  the  suspense. 

The  man  said:  "Here  y'  are.  I  thought  tlie  ol' 
guy—" 

Don  tripped  on  the  threshold  as  he  followed  in,  weak 
iu  the  knees.  A  red-haired  girl,  at  a  desk,  nodded  in 
reply  to  the  man's  "Mr.  Whitten  in!" — looking  not  at 
him  but  at  Don.  Her  hard  grey  eye  pursued  him  with 
an  indifferent  curiosity  as  he  passed  through  to  the 
inner  office. 
Mr.  Wliitteu  rose,  peering  short-sightedly,  and  Don, 


206 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


as  he  stood  behind  his  companion's  glib  explanations 
stared  at  something  in  the  face  which  he  thought  he  had 
seen  before.  The  grey  beard  and  moustache  were  un- 
tamihar;  the  hair  was  wrong,  but  the  forehead  and  the 
nose,  the  eyebrows— 

Mr'-Mr'-^>'^'''"'° '"'''•  ""^''-    *    '    ^  «"«»  y". 
It  was  the  voice— 
"Dixon." 

Exactly !  I  recall  you  distinctly. ' ' 
It  was  the  voice  of  Mr.  Vandever  !-Vandever  no 
longer  clean-shaven,  Vandever  without  his  gold-rimmed 
glasses  and  his  beamingly  benign  regard-but  undoubt- 
edly the  benevolent  Vandever.  And  Don,  for  the  first 
time,  looked  at  an  old  man  infamous. 

It  held  him  like  a  horror.  It  revolted  while  it  fasci- 
nated him.     The  squinting  eyes,  weak  without  their 
glasses,  were  hideously  hypocritical.     The  false  smile 
the  pretence  of  kindliness,  the  affected  warmth  of  man- 
ner were  a  disgusting  villainy  so  incredible  to  him  that 
he  could  not  take  his  eyes  from  them.    He  did  not  hear 
what  "Dixon"  was  saying.     He  stood  gaping  until 
Vandever   held   out   a   hand  to  him,    and   then   the 
approach  of  contact  with  this  dishonored  old  rogue 
woke  him  to  loathing  and  shame.    He  shook  his  head 
red  and  stammering,  refusing  the  hand-clasp ;  he  looked 
at     Dixon"  appealingly  and  saw  in  the  man's  face 
that  he,  too,  was  a  partner  in  the  abominable  business; 
then  he  turned  and  hurried  from  the  office  with  the 
echo  of  Dixon's  "What  the  hell!"  following  him  like 
the  vile  odor  of  this  degradation  from  which  he  fled 


THE  IDEALIST 


207 

i.,"r.t  x™i'  • '""' "" ""'  "pw-d  to  b.  h-. 

"They  're-thieves-fakirs." 
"Oh.  .  .  Thanks.  What  's  the  matter?" 
Don,  safe  at  a  distance  from  the  office,  leaned  against 
»  l»mp-post,  and  between  labored  breaths  expSned 
what  had  happened.  The  other  smiled  easi  y.  ^'i  sT^ 
you  g,.,„g  ,,  ,ith  that  'tout'.  I  was  wonder  nl 
whether  he  was  on  the  level,  now.  The  street  's  full  of 
«  eon.  agents.  Don't  ever  pay  them  in  advance  If 
hey  're  straight,  they  '11  only  ask  a  rake^ffj^ryour 
I  first  month's  wages."  ^ 

I  lik./!"  °'f  '?"u°°~"'''  *''«*'"    ^o"  ^««  trembling 
e„./'     T.'T'  '"'*°  '°^""«'l  °"  the  streets;  and 
|.l.e  other  watched  him,  a  little  amused,  a  little  'sorry 

"You  're  new  here?" 

|v.r"rfac?''''''  *"''  '"''"*  ''*  °°  *'''  """""-y  "f  Vande- 

Hot  ont  '"  ^"'  T^,  *°  T  ""'  °^  '^'°^-    There  's  a 
l"'t  ui  It.    .    .    Looking  for  work?" 

l-nZ'''"-  ^\«°'^«'^d'  mechanically,  staring  at  the 
iP'ih'v.  miserable,  in  a  world  of  roguery. 


208 


DON-A-DREAMS 


"What  havp  you  found f" 

' '  Nothing !    I  can  "t.    I  can 't  find  anyth'  .g. " 

It  was  the  voice  of  abject  hopelessness.  His  co]U' 
panion  studied  him,  debating  something  with  himself. 
He  coughed,  "Well,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  v. hep 
you  '11  get  anything  regular,  but  there  pre  a  lot  of  little 
things  to  do,  to  earn  a  dollar  of  two,  if  you  want  to." 

"Where!" 

He  smiled  at  Don's  amazement.  "Why,  all  over 
town.    You  could  try  boosting  down  on  the  Bowery  "- 

"Boosting?" 

"Yes." 

"What  'sthat?" 

"Well."  He  coughed  again.  "I  '11  show  you— if  yoa 
care  to  try  it.  It  's  fifty  cents  for  an  afternoon— a  dol- 
lar a  day  if  you  work  nights  too." 

Don  clenched  his  hands.  "I  '11  do  anything. " 

He  suppressed  a  smile  for  this  boyish  tone  of  heroic 
desperation.    "Have  you  had  your  luncheon?" 

"No.    I-" 

"You  'd  better  come  and  have  it." 


He  had  a  low  voice  and  a  good  manner,  an  ingratiating 
gentleness,  an  attractive  quiet  address ;  and  to  Don  he 
seemed  prosperously  well-clothed,  though  a  keener  eye 
might  have  seen  that  his  blue  serge  was  worn  shiny  on 
the  seams,  that  his  straw  hat  was  a  lemon-yellow  from 


THE  IDEALIST 


209 


frequent  cleanings  with  acid  aad  sulphur,  that  his 
enameled-leather  shoes  were  shabby  with  a  network  of 
small  cracks.  His  features  were  almost  ascetically  lean 
and  bony,  and  he  had  the  mouth  of  a  public  speaker 
that  smiled  with  a  slow  ease  very  pleasant  to  see.  After 
a  silence,  he  always  cleared  his  throat,  with  a  deliberate 
pough,  before  he  spoke.  Altogether,  he  reminded  Don 
of  a  young  curate  whom  he  had  known  in  his  Sunday- 
school  days  in  Coulton;  and  unconsciously  Don  was 
drawn  to  him  by  this  memory  of  his  prototype,  trusted 
him,  and  was  ready  to  confide  in  him. 

They  went  to  a  cheap  Hungarian  cafd  where  Don 
understood  neither  the  names  of  the  dishes  nor  the 
ingredients  of  them ;  but  in  a  revulsion  of  emotion,  tak- 
ing everything— including  his  food— on  trust,  he  was 
moved  to  tell  this  chance  acquaintance  more  of  himself 
and  his  circumstances  than  he  could  have  told  anyone 
but  an  intimate  friend ;  and  it  was  always,  afterwards, 
a  marvel  to  him  that  he  had  done  so,  for  the  clerical 
stranger,  after  introducing  himself  as  "Walter  Tower," 
merely  listened  and  smiled  and  nodded,  with  the  man- 
ner of  an  elder  who  understood,  but  with  no  return  of 
confidences  in  kind.  Beyond  this  sympathetic  atten- 
tion, he  contented  himself  with  recalling  Don  to  his 
neglected  food.  "Yes J"  he  would  say,  encouragingly. 
"These  Hungarians  do  not  serve  butter.  We  can  order 
some,  if  you  like,  but  it  '11  be  unsalted."  Or  "Try  this 
dessert.  It  tastes  like  Purim  cake.  Have  you  ever 
done  any  stage  work?"  And  when  they  had  paid  the 
beaming  foreigner  in  shirt  sleeves— behind  a  counter 
full  of  bread  and  pies  and  boxes  of  cheap  cigars— 


210 


DON-A-DBBAMS 


Tower  held  the  door  open  and  passed  Don  out  with  the 
same  protective  smile,  somewhat  amused  but  always 
sympathetic. 

They  took  the  elevated  railroad  around  the  Battery 
to  Chatham  Square. 

It  was,  for  Don,  a  descent  into  the  city's  unknown 
lower  regions,  but  Tower  seemed  as  much  at  home  and 
as  incuriously  observant  of  familiar  surroundings  as  he 
had  been  when  sauntering  along  the  line  of  employment 
agencies  on  Sixth  Avenue.  "This  is  the  Bowery,"  he 
said,  as  they  came  down  the  station  steps.  "The 
Rogues'  Highway.'  "  He  led  silently  past  the  "beer 
gardens,"  the  "musees,"  the  "amusement  parlors" 
and  all  the  sour  drinking  resorts  and  tinselled  "fake 
shows"  of  the  street,  apparently  unconscious  of  the 
vicious  and  miserable  faces  that  he  met,  of  the  stagger- 
ing drunkenness  of  ragged  men  and  the  pathetic  finery 
of  painted  women.  "This  is  'Suicides'  Hall,'  "  he 
explained  mildly,  as  they  passed  a  saloon.  "Abiut 
three  girls  a  month,  on  the  average,  drink  carbolie  acid 
there.  Don't  stare,"  he  added.  "And  don't  answer 
if  you  're  spoken  to."  Don  proceeded,  silent  with  the 
oppression  of  spirits  which  seemed  to  exhale  in  the 
stale  air  of  the  street,  in  the  paleness  of  faces  that  were 
marked  by  the  summer  heat  with  a  drawn  exhaustion 
instead  of  a  healthy  tan,  in  the  hoarse  cries  of  the 
"barkers"  at  the  doors,  and  in  the  smell  of  spotted 
fruit  that  came  from  the  push-carts  of  peddlers  at  the 
curb  and  from  the  watermelon  rinds  in  the  gutters. 

They  stopped  before  the  "Palace  of  Illusions:    The 
original  Bcwery  Musee,"  and  Tower  said  "Wait  here 


THE  IDEALIST 


211 


a  mmnte."  He  nodded  to  the  "barker"  in  the 
entrance,  passed  the  inner  ticket  office  and  disappeared 
Don  studied  the  yellowed  photographs  of  a  fat  woman 
an  acrobat  in  tights,  a  girl  in  dancing  skirts  posed  on  a 
rustic  fence  with  her  back  to  the  seashore,  a  pugilist 
menacing  a  punching  bag-until  Tower  came  out  again 
with  a  man  of  Dixon's  type,  who  looked  Don  over-his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  a  cigar  in  his  mouth-and  said: 
"A'  right.  We  're  goin'  to  start  the  grind  in  about 
ten  minutes.  Got  a  dime?  A' right."  He  turned  to 
Tower.  "We  're  makin'  three  pushes  to  a  take.  YuL 
don't  want  to  do  any  spielin',  do  you?  The  man  we 
got  's  a  heel." 

"No,"    Tower  said.    "I  'm  out  of  practice.    I  'd 
sooner  boost." 

"A'  right,  'bo.    String  'em  up.    The  other  boys  '11  be 
along  in  a  shake." 

He  went  in.  Tower  put  his  hand  on  Don's  shoulder 
and  started  him  up  the  street  again.  "We  have  noth- 
ing to  do,"  he  explained,  "but  to  walk  up  to  that  door 
whgn  the  man  yon  saw  there  begins  to  call  out  that  the 
show  is  'on.'  We  wait-inside,  where  they  have  the  free 
performance,  until  a  crowd  has  gathered;  then,  when 
the  'spieler'  (they  call  him)  says  'Right  this  way,'  we 
push  over  to  tie  box  office,  pay  ten  cents  and  pass  in. 
He  '11  give  you  back  your  money  inside.  T'.e  idea  is  to 
start  the  crowd  going  in." 

To  a  youth  of  another  temperament,  it  might  have 
been  either  an  amusing  adventure  or  a  shocking  fall 
into  a  lower  world ;  but  Don  had  not  the  self-detach- 
ment which  could  either  enjoy  his  surroundings  as 


212 


DON-A-DREAMS 


apart  from  hinuelf  or  pity  himself  as  above  hii  mir- 
roundinf^ ;  and  he  was  so  accustomed  to  havinK  events 
leap  upon  him  unforeseen  that  he  accepted  this  last 
bewildering  turn  of  fortune  in  his  usual  dazed  absorp- 
tion of  new  sights.  It  was  no  more  abrupt  and  stranuo 
to  him  than  his  meetings  with  Margaret  or  his  partin^i 
from  her,  his  arrival  at  college  or  his  leaving  it,  liis 
varying  relations  with  Conroy,  with  his  father,  with 
the  whole  world,  in  fact— this  world  of  which  he  never 
seemed  able  to  discern  the  motives  or  f'  jee  the  acta. 
Always,  as  soon  as  he  had  planned  a  future  to  the  last 
detail  of  desire,  a  turn  of  the  road  faced  him  with  the 
unexpected,  and  he  stood  lost. 

At  the  barker's  hoarse  cry  of  "All  free,  gents.  All 
free.  Step  right  inside,"  Tower  and  he,  sauntering 
past  the  door,  appeared  to  stop  and  hesitate.  "It  costs 
yuh  nothin',  now.  It  's  free  gratis,  free— all  free— an' 
the  fines'  show  on  the  Bowery.  Step  right  inside." 
Tower  replied  to  this  invitation,  "jollying"  the  barker, 
and  two  or  three  of  the  passers-by  stood  to  smile  and 
listen.  They  followed  Tower  in,  for  he  looked  like  a 
visitor  to  town  "doing  the  Bowery,"  and  his  smilinj; 
curiosity  was  infectious.  Within,  on  a  raised  "bally- 
hoo" platform,  there  was  a  "fire-eater"  in  a  Mephisto- 
phelean costume,  a  long-haired  "Hindoo"  who  danced 
bare-footed  on  broken  glass,  and  a  perspiring  juggler  in 
faded  blue  tights;  and  Tower,  watching  them  go 
through  their  "stunts,"  played  his  part  of  inquisitive 
idler  with  the  ease  of  an  actor,  making  humorous 
remarks  to  Don  in  loud  asides  that  amused  his  neighliurs 
in  the  crowd,  and  challenging  the  "spieler"  with  imper- 


THE  IDEALIST 


218 


tincnt  qneitioni  when  that  elo({uent  official  came  out  on 
the  platform  to  eulogize  the  acts  that  were  to  be  "wit- 
nt'ssetl  on  the  iniide  fer  a  dime,  ten  cents."  As  soon  as 
the  spieler  concluded  his  harangue  with  "Step  this  way 
to  the  box  office, ' '  Tower  said  to  Don : ' '  Well,  it  's  only  a 
(lime.  Come  on.  Let  's  have  some  fun  with  them ; "  and 
as  he  made  his  way  to  the  wicket— taking  care  to  press 
forward  those  in  front  of  him  with  a  persuasive  shoulder 
-he  started  a  current  towards  the  entrance  and  dnnv 
behind  him  a  following  of  smiling  sight-seers  who 
wished  to  hear  him  "have  some  fun"  with  the  perform- 
ance. Once  inside  the  main  hall,  with  its  "side-show" 
array  of  booths  and  small  stages,  Don  and  he  disap- 
peared behind  the  curtains  of  the  exit,  where  the  mana- 
ger returned  them  their  dimes  and  let  them  out  on  the 
street  again  for  the  next  "push." 

All  this  occurred  with  a  bewildering  rapidity  that 
made  it  rather  difficult  for  Don  to  understand ;  he  was 
puzzled  by  Tower's  part  in  it;  he  did  not  think  about 
his  own.  "Do  you  do  this  every  day!"  he  asked 

"No,"  Tower  said,  turning  him  up  the  street  again. 
"I  have  n't  done  it  since  I  first  came  to  town— six 
years  ago." 

"You  're  doing  it  to  show  me  how  J" 

"Principally.    Yes." 

Don  flushed  with  gratitude.    "Thanks." 

"Well,"  Tower  said,  "it  is  n't  a  highly  respectable 
job,  I  suppose,  but  I  could  n't  think  of  anything  else— 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment— anything  that  you  can  do. 
And  the  show  is  worth  ten  cents.  It  is  n't  as  if  you  were 
Juing  it  for  one  of  those  fake  'fronts'  down  the  street." 


214 


DON-A-DREAMS 


"It  'i-it  ••  mighty  good  of  you,"  Don  •tammerpd 
"taking  your  time  and—" 

' '  Not  at  all.    1  've  nothing  elw  to  do  juat  now. ' ' 

"What  do  you  do— generally." 

"When  I  have  an  engagement,  I  act." 

"On  the  atagef" 

Tower  smiled.  "Up -at  the  back  of  the  stage,  princi- 
pally.  Yes.    .    .    IIow  do  you  like  'boosting'?" 

"I  don't  know  yet." 

"Well"— Tower  cleared  his  throat-" it  can't  do  ydu 
any  hurt.  This  sort  of  thing— seeing  the  Bowery- 
puts  you  wise  to  a  lot  of  life.  It  gives  you  the  under- 
side  of  a  good  deal.  I  'd  stick  at  it  for  a  while  if  I 
were  you.  When  the  theatres  open,  you  can  get  some 
'suping.'  " 

"What  's  that?" 

"I  '11  show  you,  some  day." 

The  barker  greeted  them  afresh:  "All  free,  gents. 
All  free  on  the  inside.  Step  right  in.  It  costs  you  noth- 
in'.    All  free." 

Tower  stopped.  "Is  it  a  free  lunch  or  a  public 
library?" 

The  barker  waved  his  hand  genially.  "Nt.Cicr,  my 
Christian  friend.  Neither  ner  both.  If  yuh  're  aii 
eats- 'em-alive,  yuh  'II  find  ycr  cage  down  the  strccl. 
This  is  the  on'y  original  'Palace  of  Illusions,'  the  fam- 
ous Bowery  rausce.  Step  right  inside,  an'  keep  ycr 
mouth  shut  an'  yer  eyes  open.  Free  performance, 
gents." 

"Come  on,"  Tower  said.  "Let  's  see  what  they  give 
for  nothing." 


THE  IDEALIST 


215 


It  wu  not,  Bi  Tower  had  laid,  a  "highly  rospfctablo 
job,"  but  it  wai  the  flrat  opportunity  that  Don  had  hod 
to  do  any  thing  for  himaelf,  and  he  went  through  it 
with  the  nervous  seriousneii  of  a  reiolvc  to  prove  him- 
self capable.  He  felt  that  he  wai  being  given  a  trial  at 
last;  that  he  owed  it  to  Tower  to  flinch  at  nothing: 
that  he  must  prove  himaclf  to  himself,  to  the  world, 
and  to  the  man  who  had  helped  him.  lie  crushed 
down  his  conscientious  scruples  <'gainst  playing  the 
hypocrite  and  counterfeiting  a  fresh  interest  in  each 
of  the  free  performances;  and  he  tried  to  pay  his 
mone;-  into  the  ticket  office  with  a  properly  alluring 
eagerneaa.  After  all,  the  show  was  worth  ten  cents,  and 
he  was  only  leading  the  public  on  to  its  own  amuse- 
ment. 

When  the  last  "take"  was  netted,  at  half-past  five, 
he  took  his  fifty  cents  froui  the  ma-  agei-  us  the  first 
wages  of  his  proven  usefulness,  and  walked  out,  with 
Tower,  full  of  a  splendid  confidence  in  himself.  Ho  hud 
"found  his  feet"  at  last,  he  thought. 

He  invited  Tower  to  have  dinner  with  Conroy  and 
Pittsey  in  their  rooms,  explaining  the  circumstances  of 
their  house-keeping.  And  Tower  said:  "Pittsey? 
What  is  his  Christian  name?" 

"Bert.    Herbert." 

"Oh!  .  .  .  Don't  tell  him  you  met  me.  I  '11 
eall  some  evening  and  surprise  him." 

"Really!    You  know  him?    He  's  been  here  before. " 

"Yes.    How  's  he  getting  on?" 

Don  related  his  friend's  successes  with  pride. 
"Where  did  you  meet  him?" 


216  DON-A-DREAMS 

' '  I  used  to  know  him  in  Canada. " 

vonTr"* '''■•"'  "°PP"^  "^  "  "'"^ded  comer.     "Arc 
you  a  Canadian,  too?" 

Tower  took  him  by  the  arm,  amusedly,  and  guided 

h.m  acms  the  street.    "I  was  born  so.    There  are  sev 

era   thousand,  of  us  here-in  New  York-yo:  kLow  " 

Did  you  know  /was?" 

"I  supposed  so,  from  your  Univeraity  pin  " 

Don  put  his  hand  up  to  it,  flushing  excitedly     "N„„ 

I  understand  why—  t    i        i ,     ,  '^-      ^"^^ 

why  you  did  it.    You  Ve  been"  "  'j'';  °"' 

to—"  ^°  •    •    •    mighty  decent 

turlw'foff'irf '  If'*  •"  *''«  ^^'^-"^  ««titude, 
•W„n^  pI  "'  °*^'^-  O""'*  mention  it-not  to  your 
r  end  Pittsey,  at  any  rate.    This  is  your  station  herT 

L  bvT'  T""  *°''°-"  «^  ^^'-^  °"*  '''^  hand.    "W  i 
you  be  boosting  to-morrow?" 

Don  closed  on  his  fingers  with  an  eager  warmth   as 

could  wear  off  and  leave  their  parting  less  abrupt 

Won't  I  though!    Will  you?"  «>»  aorupt. 

"Well,  I  '11  be  down  at  one  o'clock  to  see  you  started 

-  gX™'  *'^"-"    «^  ^"PP^'l  ^--  I>o»'«  grasp: 

hand  t'o'Dr'V";  T:''  ""^  "'"^'''^^  «"''  -»-«d  hi. 

hand  to  Don  who  stood  beaming  at  the  foot  of  the  sta 
on  steps,  obstructing  the  passage.  The  hot  and  impa- 
hnf.H.l"''  ''°"''°  ^""^  "^P^d  «^«»«t  him  and 
haThr4?„o°;  "*  "'  *'"'•  ^■'''  "'"^  -*  -de^tan 

or  tlie  streets  that  he  was  a  tried  and  accepted  earner 

of  wages,  and  one  of  themselves.     He  forgave  them 


TTTl.  IDEALIST  217 

with  an  abstracteo  smile  that  <.,'..Tied  him  into  a  City 
Hall  tram  instead  ol  the  one  which  he  should  have 
taken  to  the  Battery. 

He  arrived  at  his  rooms  for  supper,  late  but  jubilant 
with  a  watermelon  which  he  had  bought  to  celebrate 
bis  success;  and  he  was  met  at  the  door  of  the  dining- 
room  by  an  equally  jubilant  announcement  from  Con- 
roy  that  he,  too,  had  found  work-in  the  shipping 
department  of  a  wholesale  grocery.  "Answering  fake 
advertisements-that  's  not  the  way!  I  just  went  from 
one  door  to  another,  all  along  the  street,  asking  for 
something  to  do.  They  gave  me  this  job  when  they 
found  out  I  knew  how  to  put  addresses  on  box.s  and 
barrels,  with  a  brush-j/ou  know-the  way  they  print 
them."  He  had  learned  that  art  in  his  father's  ware- 
house. "What  did  you  get,  Don?" 
"I  '11  tell  you— some  day.  It  's  a  secret." 
"What  is  it?" 

"Never  mind,"  he  laughed.  "  I  met  some  one.  You  '11 
see."  He  plumped  his  watermelon  on  the  table 
"Look  at  that!" 

Pittsey  struck  an  attitude.  "The  first  fruits  of  hon- 
est labor!    Gee!    Let  us  gorge." 

They  gorged.  With  the  appetites  of  youth  and  the 
sauce  of  their  new  enthusiasm,  they  ate  bacon  and  fried 
eggs  for  a  summer  dinner,  laughing  and  talking  as  if 
they  were  on  a  picnic,  making  uncouth  gurgles  as  they 
devoured  the  watermelon,  and  shooting  the  seeds  out  the 
window,  by  squeezing  them  between  thumb  and  fore- 
finger, in  a  hilarious  trial  of  skill. 
"And  this,"  Pittsey  said,  as  he  aimed  with  another 


218 


DON-A-DREAMS 


seed,  "this  is  poverty  in  New  York  City!  Why  off 
the  Bowery  the  Italians  eat  watermelon  seeds  for'dos- 
^rt.  Watch  me  t'rowin'  good  grub  out  the  window 
Ping!" 

Don  bit  a  seed  to  taste  it.    "Poor  beggars,"  he  said 
Poor  nothing!"  Pittsey  cried.  "I  think  they  have 
the  best  of  the  bargain.     There  are  more  seeds  than 
anything  else  in  a  watermelon,  anyway." 


VI 

The  Bowery  is  not  only  a  "Rogues'  Highway";  it  is,  to 
the  tenements  of  the  East  Side,  what  the  theater  district 
of  Broadway  is  to  the  rest  of  the  city ;  and  Don 's  "M„- 
see     was  a  crude  but  honest  house  of  amusement  for 
the  poor  and  for  the  slumming  parties  that  came  to 
see  the  poor  amused.    It  was  not  one  of  those  "fake 
fronts   -as  Tower  had  called  them-which  allure  the 
morbidly  curious  with  promises  of  an  indecent  exhi- 
bition and  turn  them  out  a  side  door,  disappointed. 
Nevertheless,  it  lived  in  the  heart  of  a  pollution  whic 
slowly-as  Don  slowly  realized  it-repelled  and  sad- 
dened while  it  puzzled  him.    Here  was  life  reduced  to 
Its  lowest  terms  of  bestiality:  vice  without  its  disguis- 
ing glitter,  suffering  that  had  no  illusion  to  make  it 
noble,  and  crime  miserable  in  its  own  hell.    Where  did 
this  inferno  find  its  place  in  the  scientific  universe  that 


THE  IDEALIST 


219 


gave  to  crime  the  joy  of  its  plunder  as  it  gave  the  wild 
beast  the  joy  of  its  prey?  And  if  Man  were  merely 
a  higher  animal,  why  were  these  animals  not  brutally 
happy  in  their  dens? 

It  was  an  experience  of  life  for  which  Don's  books 
had  not  prepared  him.  It  was  a  lesson  from  lifr  itself 
and  not  the  colorless  argument  of  a  theory  of  life.  And 
confused  by  the  thousand  changing  incidents  that 
repeated  the  question  incessantly  around  him,  touched 
in  his  sympathies  and  revolted  in  his  ideals,  he  went 
about  his  "boosting"  as  if  bewildered  by  the  noises  of 
the  street,  staring  and  distracted. 

Tower  did  not  come  on  that  second  afternoon  to  see 
him  "started,"  and  he  worked  alone,  without  any  smil- 
ing companionship  to  disguise  from  him  the  hypocrisy 
of  his  employment.  He  finished,  that  day,  with  a  shame 
of  it  all  which  prevented  him  from  telling  his  room- 
mates what  he  had  been  doing;  but  he  returned  to  it,  on 
the  morrow,  in  the  loyal  expectation  of  seeing  Tower ; 
and  he  continued  secretly  at  his  post,  day  after  day,' 
because  he  could  not  find  any  other  work  to  do  and 
because  he  felt  himself  bound  in  gratitude  to  Tower  to 
avail  himself  of  the  opportunity  which  he  owed  to  his 
fellow-countryman.  The  sights  which  he  saw,  did,  as 
Tower  had  promised,  put  him  "wise  to  a  lot  of  life"; 
hut  they  had  the  first  effect  of  driving  him  in  on  him- 
self as  they  would  turn  a  nun  to  her  prayers.  The  hot 
and  unclean  street  reminded  him— by  contrast— of 
the  fir  trees  and  the  underbrush  and  the  rustling  cool- 
ness of  his  woods;  and  he  took  refuge  in  the  memory  of 
these.    The  women  of  the  pavements,  whom  he  saw 


22f>  DON-A-DBEAMS 

drinking  in  the  "Beer  gardens"  or  loitering  in  the  side 
doors  of  saioons,  gave  him  back  that  dear  ideal  of  girl- 
ash  innocence  who  had  sat  beside  him  under  a  green 
bower  of  branches  in  a  childish  idyll-and  met  hi.,, 
like  a  vision  m  the  snows  of  an  enchanted  Sunday 
morning-and  looked  across  a  lovers'  valley  at  the  sun- 
set v/ith  him,  holding  hands,  under  a  quiet  pine.  And 
when  he  received  a  letter  from  her,  written  in  Paris,  he 
went  to  Madison  Square  to  read  it  among  those  exiled 
trees  that  were  as  dusty  as  himself  and  as  lonely  for  the 
country  and  the  call  of  birds. 

She  wrote,  in  voluble  good  spirits,  of  an  ocean  vov. 
age  that  had  apparently  been  to  her  a  ten  days'  "excur 
TZ  ~^"  /^""'^i'"'  «°  which  she  had  not  missed  a 

beef "r""'  "°  "'^'"^  ""  ^'^  fellow-picnickers  had 
been  lovely,  'on  which  she  had  had  "such  a  good 
time.  And  this  prattle  was  as  sweet  to  him  as  poetry 
She  had  seen  London  and  Windsor  Castle  and  a  host 
of  her  mothers'  relatives  and  Westminster  Abbey  and 
she  was  now  in  Paris,  but  they  were  only  to  stay  a  week  ■ 
they  were  going  right  on  to  Germany.  It  was  all  inde- 
scribable. He  must  see  it  for  himself.  She  had  met  a 
sZr  '  '■  "  "^-*y--nd  cousin,"  who  was 
studying  musie,  too,-  and  they  were  traveling 
ogether,  and  her  .ousin  spoke  French.  It  was 
terribly  warm,  and  there  were  no  sodawater 
tountains--not  even  ice-water  at  the  English  hotels. 

aZJ^T^  """".  '""''■  *''"°  *^«*'  What  was  he 
doing?  He  must  wnte  to  her  as  soon  as  they  were  set- 
ed  some  place.  She  had  to  stop  now,  because  her 
cousm  was  taking  her  to  an  ajt  gallery.  She  was  his 
"sincerely,  'Miss  Margaret.'  " 


THE  IDEALIST 


221 


The  faint  odor  of  violets-her  favorite  perfume - 
came  to  him  from  the  paper.  He  put  it  back  in  his 
breast  pocltet,  folded  his  arms  over  it,  and  smiled  at  the 
sun-cracked  asphalt  of  the  walk.  "Miss  Margaret!" 

Next  day,  he  spent  his  forenoon  in  Central  Park,  and 
thereafter  he  made  daily  visits  to  one  or  another  of  the 
green  oases  in  the  city's  desert  of  brick  and  stone, 
refreshing  himself  for  the  afternoon's  work,  and  pon- 
dering over  his  new  experience  of  life  which  that  work 
had  given  him.    His  evenings  he  spent  with  Conroy, 
who  was  full  of  anecdotes  of  "Seotty"  and  "Redney" 
and  the  Irish  truck-drivers  and   warehousemen  with 
whom  he  worked.    And  when  Conroy  and  Pittsey  went 
out  together,  Don  remained  to  write  his  letters  to  his 
mother— whom  he  tried  to  chser  with  vague  reports 
that  he  was  well  and  happy  and  at  work-and  to  his 
uncle,  for  whom  he  had  the  good  news  of  Conroy 's 
steadiness.    He  was  never  interrupted  by  the  expected 
arrival  of  the  mysterious  Tower.     He  took  out   his 
volume  of  Emerson,  one  night,  but  only  that  he  might 
recover  from  it  his  fading  picture  of  Margaret.     He 
cut  out  the  shadowy  face  and  put  it  in  the  back  of  his 
watch-case  where  he  might  look  at  it,  the  last  thing 
before  going  to  bed,  under  pretence  of  seeing  the  time ; 
and  his  thoughts  of  her  were  like  an  evening  prayer  to 
him. 


It  was  on  one  of  his  trips  to  Central  Park  that  he  saw 
Tower  again— from  the  street  car,  as  Tower  was  hurry- 
mg  down  Sixth,  A  venue  towards  the  theatrical  agencies 
that  house  near  Herald  Square— and  on  a  characteris- 


222  DON-A-DBEAMS 

.see  us?"       ""'  ^"^  """'    ^^^  did  n't  you  come  to 
He  answered  nervou.]y=  "I  ,ost  your  address  " 

He  met  Don's  cordiality  with  a  shifting 
coughed.     "Well  "  h»  o.- 1    <!:       .  ^"'"'"K  eye-     He 
ashamed  to  call''  "*'     '°  *^"  ^''^  ''»»»".  I  ««» 

Don  cried:  "Why?" 

"w!"  ■»,;     •    ^  ''"  his  brother. " 
Whose  ? ' ' 

"Bert's." 

"Pitt's?" 

"Yes." 

^JNo.-Really?   Why  he  'd-he  'd  have  been  delighted 

wa7cotint"'"'"  ""^'  ''^'°"-    ««  ^-»«  -  that  he 
"But  even  so,  he"-  Don  frowned  over  it 

"Why?"  ^™  *"  eome-to  New  York." 

"J^eH-     .    .     I  can't  tell  you  that." 

you  tell  him  you'd  met  me?"  ^       '    "    ^"^ 


THE  IDEALIST 


223 


"You  asked  me  not  to." 

"  Yes  .  .  .  Yes,  so  I  did. "  He  walked  in  a  troubled 
silence.  "  'Tower'  is  my  stage  name."  Don  did  not 
reply;  he  did  not  know  what  to  say;  he  did  not  under- 
stand the  situation  at  all.  "Where  were  you  going?" 
Tower  asked. 

"To  Central  Park-for  a  walk.    I  saw  you  from  a 

ear." 

"Are  you  still  boosting?" 

"Yes." 

"How  do  you  like  it?" 

"Not— not  very  well." 

Tower  nodded.  They  went  along  together,  under  the 
rattle  of  elevated  trains  that  made  conversation  impos- 
sible. When  they  reached  the  comparative  quiet  of  59th 
street  and  crossed  to  the  gate  of  the  Park,  Tower  said 
suddenly:  "You  ».;e,  I  've  not  been  very  prosperous  of 
late,  and  Bert-and  the  others  at  home- got  exagger- 
ated ideas  of  what  I  was  doing  here-and-I  was 
ashamed  to  have  him  know  that  I  'd  been  boosting  and 
all  that,  this  summer,  while  I  was  trying  to  get  an 
engagement-and  meeting  you  that  way-I  thought 
he  'd  guess."  His  voice  faded  out  on  an  explanation 
that  contradicted  itself.  His  difficulty  communicated 
Itself  to  Don,  who  looked  down  at  his  feet,  guiltily, 
beginning  to  see  the  truth  behind  this  screen  of  words! 
"I  knew  he  would  n't  know  who  'Tower'  was,  even  if 
you  told  him.    It  's  not  the  name  I  use— always.    I—  " 

Don  plucked  a  leaf  from  a  bush  as  he  passed  it. 
"He  '11  meet  you  some  day,  on  the  street." 
"Yes  .    .    .    That  's  what  I  'm  afrraid  of."    He 


224 


DON-A-DBEAMS 

"I  've  been  going  around  town 


laughed  unexpectedly, 
like  a  thief." 

Dortin  P'*\''.'PP''''  '""'  «">  ""hed  tunnel  that  sup. 
ported  the  driveway  overhead.  Their  foot-falls  ran- 
hollowly  on  the  echo  there.  When  they  came  out  "n 
he  silence  of  a  grove,  Don  said:  "It  would  be  bettl- 
If  you  come  to  see  him,  I  '11  not  let  him  know  that  I  've 
met  you  before.  He  does  n't  know  that  I  Ve  bee^ 
boosting,  anyway." 

"Did  n't  you  tell  him?" 

"No.    I  was  ashamed  to,  too." 

I  CJr''?-"'"'''-    ""  '^  °'*  '»«'''•  «'  a  job,  is  it? 
I   ve  been  doing  a  good  deal  of  it  myself  " 
With  that  confession  as  a  bond  of  sympathy  between 

eatd  h  T:'  *'""  '=°'^^*"''*''"^  wafeasy  ;Ld  Don 
seated  beside  him,  on  a  bench  that  faced  the  driveway 
learned  more  of  "Tower"  than  he  had  ever  expected  t'o 

He  was  one  of  those  wanderers  who  leave  their  homes 

^,.Z  T  "'*""''  '°  ^'"■^^  «'«««  «"d  who  go  from 
Ph^ce  to  place  with  no  certain  means  of  earning  a  livin" 
but  with  a  resourceful  knowledge  of  how  to  support 
themse  ves  from  day  to  day.    He  had  begun  life Ta 

agent     of  a  theatrical  company  "on  the  road"    and 

stranded  in  a  Western  town,  he  had  done  some  news- 
paper  work,  managed  a  news-stand  in  Chicago,  been 
conductor  on  a  street-car  in  St.  Louis,  worked  if  a  cS" 
shop  .n  Pittsburg,  traveled  in  the  cabooses  of  freight 


THE  IDEALIST  225 

tmins  to  New  England,  "clerked  it"  in  Boston,  and 
come  to  New  York  as  .elper  to  a  baggage  man  on  a  pas 

^TJf  .'T"'*-."'""'    f'"«=i''»t«d   by   the    life   of   the 
Rifllto  -which  satisfied  all  his  restless  cravings  fur 
Bohemianism  a,.d  continual  change-he  had  lived  in 
the  background  oi  the  stage  world,  a  l.Hjker-on,  play- 
.ng      thmkmg  parts"   in   Broadway   theaters.   so„„.. 
tnnes  assisting  i„  stage  management  in   the  cheaper 
houses  and  sometimes  returning  to  the  ticket  wicket  of 
a  box  office.    Lately,  he  had  had  a  "run  of  bad  luck  " 
and  he  had  been  left  for  the  summer  with  nothing  to  do 
but  this     boo.,tmg"  and  "spieling"  at  Coney  Island 
or  on  the  Bowery.    He  had  been  going  the  round  of  the 
™ployment   agencies   on   tne   morning   he   met   Don, 
afraid  that  in  his  work  at  the  mu.sees  he  might  mee 
,s  brother.    "As  soon  as  the  theatrical  season  opens, " 
he  said,  "I  'U  be  all  right." 

pathL'd  ""'^^^^  ''""'  *"  ^"'^  '"°'^'  "  "''  '*■'"  ^°"  "y"*- 

'uhndmgsometlu„y.  The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  I 
behove  that  has  been  the  curse  of  me.  I  found  out  how 
;a.sy  ,t  was  to  get  along  at  a  certain  level  and  how  hard 

iZg  aloS"  """"^  '  '""  ''"''''  "*  '"-'^ 

He  gave  it  in  his  gentle  voice  that  had  for  Don  such 

fascinating  note  of  wisdom  and  experience;  and  Don 

It  that  here  was  a  man  who  could  solve  all  his  prob- 

ems  for  him^  He  tried  to  put  in  words  the  effect  which 

h   Bowery  had  had  on  him  and  the  questions  which  it 

had  aroused  m  him ;  and  "Tower"  listened  to  his  stam- 


226  DON-A-DBEAMS 

meri-.g  exptanationB.  nodding  acroM  the  blundering 
pause,  and  kee,  jg  his  eye.  on  the  sun-lit  drivewav 
with  a  thoughtful  attention.  anveway 

th»7''^  f  r. '"''"'  "'"'"  P^P'«  ««  wrong-livioK 
that  way?     Why  are  they  committing  auicide-au, 
dnnk,ng  themselves  stupid-and  looking  hke  aVo^ 
m,se.able  condemned  wretches-terrible  faees  aH  ea J 
up  w,th  disease  and  wretchedness-if  there  's  no  reat 
why  we  should  n't  be  brutes-if  it  'a  natural  for  us 
be  bru  es-.f  we  are  all  brutesf    That  's  what  I  do„' 

cotTtutthat'  'T^  """  '"""'""^  -  ^-'  ^^■ 
W„  P.  J*  '"'™  ^^""^  ^«   ''«  children-Ike 

Santa  C  aus-why  are  n't  frank  dishonesty  and  frank 

"Tower"  shook  his  head.    "I  don't  know,  I  'm  sure 

I  never  thought  of  them  that  way.    They  '  e  juTt  pe"' 

pie  to  me-people  I  meet.    I  suppose  I  get  along  wu" 

h«n  so  well,  because  I  Just  take  them  as^  would  an  ^ 

thlr  ;    ■     "v      ""^  '^'  though,"  he  added,  "why 
they  kept  you  boosting  down  there  "  ^ 

"Why?" 

featrl"""' b!!  '''"''^  "'  '"™'"'°«  "■«  ^^'  Mature  by 
feature.       Because  that  sort  of  thing  shows  in  your 

"How  do  you  mean  ?" 

nl'^l!;  "Tr^  "1°.'^  *'"'*  y°"  '"•«  °°t »°«  of  them." 
Don  blushed,  girlishly.    "Neither  are  you  " 

yJZ*  T  *^^'^°  *"*  '"'  °°«  ^'»  think  I  am. 
Tou_are  n  t-and  any  one  can  see  that  you  're  not  act- 


THE  IDEALIST  227 

"I  wish  I  were  out  of  it. " 

"Well  I  hear  they  're  going  to  begin  rehearsing 
?X  e"ly  openings  next  month.  There  'U  be  guping  •  • 
"Is  that  better?"  '^    •* 

"Oh  my,  yes.         .    .1  .,1  call  on  Bert  to-night  or 
to-morrow,  and  then  we  '11  see  what  we  can  do 
Let  's  take  a  walk  now,  and  forget  it." 

Don  returned  to  his  "boosting,"  that  afternoon,  with 
the  hope  that  he  should  soon  be  free  of  it-  but  he 
n-turned  in  a  disgust  of  it  which  made  it  almMt  unen- 
durable  now   that   "Tower"    had   admitted   what   a 
degradation  ,t  was.    The  day  was  steamingly  hot  and 
humid,  the  air  was  blue  with  a  choking  haze;  and  the 
stones  of  the  Bowery,  still  wet  from  a  previous  night's 
ram,  seemed  sweating,  greased,  slimy  with  a  thin  mud 
that  slipped  under  the  heel.     The  "barker"  in  the 
door  of  the  Musee  was  shouting  impatiently,  the  pers- 
piration running  down  his  neck  into  the  soiled  hand- 
kerchief which  he  had  stuffed  inside  his  collar     The 
free   performance   dragged   on   without   spirit.'    The 
spieler      wiped    his    forehead,    his   eloquence    gone 
meehanical,  a  thing  learned  by  rote  and  feebly  repeated 
The  manager  chafed  over  the  meagerness  of  the  audi^ 
ences  that  gathered  to  all  this  "ballyhooing"  and  were 
herded  m  by  Don  and  his  fellow  boosters. 

Don  did  not  speak  to  any  of  the  other  "touts"-  he 
had  never  done  so;  and  they  had  never  made  kny 
approaches  to  him,  knowing-as  "Tower"  had  said-- 
that  he  was  not  one  of  them.  They  showed  no  curiosity 
eoneerning  him,  for  curiosity  is  not  encouraged  on  the 


MB  DON-A-DREAMS 

Bowery.  They  accepted  him  aH  a  young  fellow  "down 
on  hm  luck,"  and  were  more  indifferent  to  him  than  hv 
WBM  to  them.  One  of  them  asked  him  for  a  match  ami 
merely  nodded  at  Don',  polite  reply  that  he  was  Ron-.v 
he  had  nom^nodded  as  if  the  answer  was  what  he  hail 
expected.  The  manaRer,  in  the  exit,  as  Don  went  out 
pleaded  hoarsely:  "Say,  'bo,  fer  O-'s  sake,  shove  ',.i,i 
up.  String  'em.  String  'em."  And  Don  did  not 
reply— because  he  did  not  understand. 

He  was  coming  out  from  the  second  push  of  the  final 
takfr-returning  to  his  p.ieket  the  dime  which  he  had 
just  received  from  the  manager— when  a  hand  was  lai.l 
on  his  shoulder  from  behind  and  he  looked  around  at 
the  grinning  Dixon,  the  man  who  had  been  tout  for  tli.. 
unspeakable  A'andever. 

"Well,  I   'm  d !"  he  said.     "If  you  ain't  tl,.- 

slickest  con  on  the  walk.    Yuh  took  me  all  right !    Yuli 
played  me  fer  a  sucker."    Don  stared  at  his  admiriiiK 
smile  of  good  fellowship.    "What  sort  o'  back-cappin' 
were  yuh  tryin'  to  come  on  me  anyway,  that  dav?" 
"WhatJ"  ' 

"Aw,  shuffle  'em.    Shuffle  'em,"  he  laughed     "I  'm 
on." 

"I  don't  understand  what  you  're  talking  about." 
Dixon  spat  on  the  sidewalk  and  smiled  undiseour- 
aged.  "Say,  what  's  the  use?  I  got  a  graft  worth  tw,. 

o'  this  d d  supper  show  here-if  yuh  want  some 

boostin'-out  on  Coney.  It  's  playin'  too  close  to  the 
cushion  fer  me.  An'  these  touts— I  been  sizin'  'em  up 
-they  ain't  the  thing.  They  'd  get  the  turn  called  on 
em,  first  hand.  Yuh  're  the  guy  I  want.  Yuh  've  got 
a  mug  to  steer  Mary's  little  lamb."    He  saw  the  dis- 


THE  IDEALIST  229 

none.,  now.    I  am't  tryin"  to  HtinKy' ..Kain.    Thia 'a 
on  the  straight.    If  yuh  want  th.  , lough- " 

h.h!nH  TV*'  ''™"  ^^""•'■""f  «  xtn-^'t  ear  approaching 
behnd  D>xon;  when  it  was  almost  opp,«it,,  he  .larte! 
as.de  as  .f  dodging  an  atten.pt  to  catch  him,  ran  ou 
into  the  roadway  «n,I  sprang  on  the  step  of  the  car  as 
.t  clanged  at  h.ll  speed  „p  the  street.  An.l  LK-kin" 
baek  over  h,s  shoulder,  panting,  as  if  i„  fear  of  pur' 

n T'^A  u  """"'"^  "'='""  """•"■«  -f'""-  him.  open 
r.  »n  ♦  n  T^  '"*"  '■'"  *■"»•  '•"'  '-hame  of  hav- 
burned  h  T?  "  T'  """'"  ""  """  '"  «  "ot  blush. 
I  „tr  .  "^  1  "  •"■""''  "^  '"^""'y  «hcn  the  con- 
lu  tor-who  had  seen  him  running  like  a  pickpocket 

„li  .T"*'"'  "  """""■"'"  *"  ""P^"  "n  his  trail- 
lookcd  at  his  money  suspiciously,  hesitated,  and  then 
reluctantly  rang  up  his  fare. 

He  was  noticeably  silent  at  the  dinner  table.    ' '  What  \ 
wrong,   Don?"   Conroy   asked   him.   when   they   were 
washing  d,.,hes  together.    "Have  you  been  'firedT' 
J>f>,     he  said.  "I  've  'left.'" 
"What  was  it?    What  have  you  been  doing?" 
Don  shook  his  head.     He  felt  that  no  matter  how 
long  he  lived,  he  must  carry  the  guilt  of  that  employ- 
ment  with  him  as  a  crime  which  he  could  not  confS 

unlh.  r.'  *°  '""'  *""*  ^""^  "'y  '-  ""«ht  tell  hi 
-unable  to  have  such  a  secret  between  them-and  that 
she  would  despise  him  for  it. 

He  went  to  bed,  that  night,  without  looking  at  her 
face  in  his  watch. 


230 


DON-A-DREAMS 


VII 

It  was  a  part  of  his  young  intensity  that  he  should 
regard  this  experience  on  the  Bowery  as  a  fall  from 
honor  of  which  he  should  always  bear  the  mark     lie 
had  none  of  that  priggish  vanity  of  self -righteousness 
which  so  passionately  regrets  the  soiling  of  his  garment 
and  he  had  little  of  the  sensitive  virtue  that  continued 
to  shudder  with  abhorrence  at  thought  of  the  filth 
which  It  has  touched.     But  it  seemed  to  h"  .,-as  he 
tried  to  explain  to  the  elder  Pittsey-that  "there  are 
laws  of  morality,  like  the  laws  of  health,  and  if  a  man 
breaks  them  he-he  has  to  pay  for  it  in  the  same  sort 
ot  way  .     .     .   by  being  sick  morally  ...  by  weak 
enmg  himself  morally.    And  I  believe  that  's  what  's 
wrong  with  all  those  unhappy  wretches  on  the  Bowery 
They    re  breaking  the  laws  of  morality,  and  they  're 
suffering  for  it  just  the  same  as  they  would  if  they 
broke  the  laws  of  healthy  living." 

"But  ar«  they?"  the  other  queried,  amused.    "Are 
they  suffering?" 

"Well   they  look  as  if  they  were.    They  kill  them- 
selves  with  carbolic  acid,  as  if  they  were  " 

"That  'sso." 

"0£  couwe  it  -8  so.  They  can  say  what  they  please 
about  man  being  only  a  higher  animal.  If  he  is  only 
a  higher  animal,  at  least  he  is  a  higher  animal;  and  the 
law  of  development  .  .  .  that  has  raised  him 
IS  a  real  law  and  he  can't  go  against  it  without  suffer- 
ing for  it.    I  believe  that  1" 


THE  IDEALIST 


231 


"Well,  that  's  something  to  believe-" 
The  elder  Pittsey  had  called  upon  the  younger  on 
the  previous  evening,  having  obtained  the  address— s- 
he  explained— from  the  "folks  at  home";  and  he  had 
been  introduced  to  Don  by  his  proud  brother,  who  car- 
ried himself  with  a  subdued  and  respectful  admiration 
for  Walter  and  was  impressed  by  the  easy  friendliness 
of  manner  which  developed  at  once  between  Walter 
and  Don.  He  even  dropped  the  note  of  raillery  in  his 
relations  with  Don,  when  the  succeeding  days  seemed  to 
strengthen  that  friendliness;  and  if  he  was  somewhat 
envious  of  the  way  in  which  Don  was  admitted  to  con- 
fidences from  which  he  himself  was  excluded,  he  con- 
soled himself  by  falling  back  on  Conroy  for  company 
and  left  his  brother  to  his  choice. 

It  followed  that  Don  was  free  to  walk  and  argue  with 
his  new  friend  as  much  as  he  wished ;  and  Walter  Pitt- 
sey was  nothing  if  not  a  patient  listener.  The  discus- 
sions were  rather  one-sided,  and  they  were  always  of 
abstract  questions— for  Don  was  still  incapable  of  talk- 
mg  of  himself-but  they  were  the  aggressive  arguments 
of  an  idealist  who  was  beginning  to  find  his  voice;  and 
they  marked  a  stage  in  Don's  development  from  his 
past  to  his  future. 

They  were,  of  course,  merely  the  attempts  of  a  bewil- 
dered youth  to  find  some  working  compromise,  on 
which  to  live,  between  the  barren  scepticisms  of  his  edu- 
cation and  the  instincts  which  that  education  could  not 
kill.  He  was  at  that  most  violent  period  of  a  man's 
growth,  when  the  crises  of  all  his  fevers  come  on  hun  to- 
gether, when  he  is  tormented  by  the  passionate  uncer- 
tamties  of  his  love  and  the  chilling  uncertainties  of  his 


232  DON-A-DBEAMS 

unsettled   religious    beliefs    and    the   groping   „„eer 

tamt.es  of  his  attempts  to  find  a  place  in  a  mad  wo   . " 

vsihly  around  hm,  and  the  immense  void  of  the    k; 

It  was  the  mark  of  his  impraeticality  that  he  first 
grew  easy  :n  his  mind  about  his  merely  worldly  pr 

he't '■  T'Af"^  '""*''  '  ''^  '"'»«-  °n  the  Bow™; 
he  accepted  them  as  confirming  Walter  Pittsey's  ZZ' 
ance  that  .t  was  always  easy  to  find  "something"  to  d„ 
and  he  resigned  himself  to  waiting  idly  for  the  theatri' 
cal  season  to  begin.  He  idled  in  Central  Park  trj  n« 
to  make  h.m^lf  familiar  with  all  the  puzzling  turns  o? 
tha    labyrinth  of  walks  in  the  "Ramble,"  or  sitting  to 

'Si  ■'  *o;  trr  t  *'^ '''''-''  p'ayin?  in  th*: 

«vl  \       ■  '°^   *^   contented    swans   floating 

above  their  inverted  images  in  the  sunlit  still  water  "' 
he  Ponds.    He  idled  in  the  reading-room  of  the  A  t  r 

~f'  T'  *"^  *'"■""•"'  P««^«  "'  *e  illustrated 
magazines  or  drowsing  over  the  philosophical  and  scien- 
tific  essays  on  Assyrian  inscriptions  and  the  dispute.! 
authorship  of  the  gospels  and  the  latest  experiments  „ 
the  transmission  of  electrical  energj-  without  the  use  of 
wires.  He  idled  in  his  room,  of  an  evening,  readina 
and  re-readmg  the  gossip  of  the  newspapers,  or  sitting 
with  empty  eyes  before  his  memories  of  Margaret- 

Z7Z7  '"f  ""V-"''  "P  '"  P'''*"'-^^  °*  her  on  the 
drift  of  smoke  in  which  he  brooded;  for  he  had  begun 
to  use  tobacco.  ° 


THE  IDEALIST 


233 


He  was  worried  somewhat  by  Conroy,  who  borrowed 
money  from  him  with  the  careless  air  of  asking  for 
what  he  knew  was  his  own  and  spent  it  ostensibly  on 
theaters  and  cigars.  It  was  evident  from  Conroy 's 
talk  of  "rushing  the  growler"  and  "hitting  the  can" 
that  the  men  at  the  warehouse  were  jovial  drinkers- 
and  he  himself,  on  more  than  one  warm  evening,  came 
to  his  dinner  with  a  sleepy  lack  of  appetite  that  smelled 
sourly  of  beer.  Don  put  the  situation  before  Walter 
Pittsey,  on  one  of  their  rounds  of  the  theatrical 
agencies;  and  the  older  man  made  light  of  it  "A  lit 
tie  beer  won 't  hurt  him,  you  know.  It  's  harmless  stuff. 
Besides,  he   s  old  enough  to  take  care  of  himself." 

"But  I  'm  responsible  for  him,  to  his  father,"  Don 
said.      'He  promised  not  to  drink." 

"Well  I  should  n't  make  trouble  for  him,  if  I  were 
you.  He  '11  probably  go  home  at  Christmas  and  stay 
there.  Ihen  he  '11  be  off  your  hands.  Come  up  to  the 
house  to-night,  will  you?  There  's  somebody  there  I  'd 
like  you  to  meet. ' ' 

He  lived  on  one  of  the  upper  floors  of  a  theatrical 
boarding-house  off  Sixth  Avenue,  but  he  had  never  be- 
fore inv>,ed  Don  to  his  room,  and  Don  had  been  left  to 
pather,  from  what  he  heard  of  the  house,  that  it  was 
the  rough  Bohemian  abode  of  vaudeville  "ham-fatters" 
-as  Pittsey  called  them.  Pittsey  professed  to  like  the 
house  because  the  boarders  had  reduced  the  mistress  of 
It  to  a  proper  meekness  of  spirit.  "The  last  time  she 
ned  to  make  trouble  for  them,"  he  had  explained, 
they  carried  her  saucepans  and  the  covers  of  her  kitchen 
range  up  to  the  roof  and  dropped  them  down  the  chim- 


234 


DON-A-DREAMS 


V 

y 


ney.  They  would  n't  leave  the  place,  and  she  had  n't 
the  nerve  to  go  to  the  police  court,  so  she  has  to  get  alon^ 
with  them.  But  I  should  n't  advise  you  to  call  on  me 
there.  Generally,  she  does  n't  answer  the  door  bell. 
And  when  she  does,  she  is  n't  exactly  polite." 

Because  of  this  stat«  of  things,  Don  and  he  had 
always  met  at  appointed  places  on  street  comers  or  in 
public  squares;  and  now  Don  replied  to  the  invitation 
to  call  with  a  doubt  of  Mrs.  Kahrle's  reception  of  him. 
"Well,"  the  actor  said,  "come  at  eight  o'clock  and  I  '11 
meet  you  at  the  door." 

He  went— to  escape  from  the  thought  that  he  should 
be  writing  a  letter,  to  his  uncle,  about  Conroy. 

It  was  an  old-fashioned'  house  with  a  balcony  that 
crossed  the  sills  of  the  lower  windows  and  connected 
with  the  porch  steps;  and  when  Don  arrived,  that  even- 
ing, two  girls  in  summer  gowns  were  sitting  with  Wal- 
ter Pittsey  on  the  balcony,  fanning  themselves  with 
newspapers  and  chatting  to  him  while  he  smoked.  He 
rose  to  greet  Don  and  to  introduce  him  to  "Miss 
Arden"  and  "Miss  Morrison";  and  because  Don  could 
see  their  faces  only  dimly— and  knew  that  the>  could 
not  see  his— he  was  not  embarrassed.  He  was  all  the 
more  startled,  in  his  security,  when  Miss  Morrison,  ar. 
he  sat  beside  her,  said  in  a  calm  aside:  "I  suppose  ycm 
have  forgotten  me,  Mr.  Gregg?" 

He  stared  at  her  in  the  half-light,  trying  to  distin- 
guish her  features,  of  which  she  gave  him  only  the 
indistinct  profile.  (Miss  Arden  was  continuing  her 
conversation  with  Pittsey:  "Oh,  she  fell  down  in  it 
Terribly!  Terribly!  She  was  n't  in  the  part  for  a 
minute.")     Don  said:  "Why  no —  Yes.    I—" 


THE  IDEALIST 


235 


Miss  Morrison  waited  for  him  to  go  on.  When  he  did 
not,  she  added,  still  fanning  herself,  and  without  turn- 
ing to  him:  "Have  you  forgotten  when  you  went  to 
Miss  Morris's  school?" 

' '  Miss  Morris 's  school  ? "  He  could  sje  no  connection 
between  that  almost  forgotten  past  and  this  meeting 
with  an  occupant  of  Mrs.  Kahrle's  boarding-house.  He 
laughed  nervously.    "Perhaps,  if  I  could  see  you,  I—" 

Pittsey  had  struck  a  match  to  relight  his  cigar.  She 
said  l,i  him:  "Give  me  that  one,  Walter.  You  light 
another."  And  reaching  the  match  from  him,  she 
turned  with  it  helU  before  her  face,  at  the  level  of  her 
chin,  looked,  without  a  smile,  at  Dbn. 

He  did  not  notice  the  theatricality  of  the  action.  He 
saw  only  that  she  had  the  face  of  a  beautiful  mask,  and 
that  it  was  as  self-possessed  as  marble  itself,  with  liv- 
ing eyes  that  studied  him  as  he  stared  at  her.  She  said 
calmly:  "He  does  n't  remember  me." 

He  had  a  confused  and  vague  recollection  of  having 
been  in  this  same  situation,  of  having  heard  her  say 
these  same  words,  before ;  but  he  could  lot  remember 
where  it  had  been,  and  he  found  nothing  familiar  in 
her  face.  The  match  burned  out  between  them.  She 
explained,  as  she  dropped  the  glowing  ember:  "I  'm 
Kose  Morris— her  little  sister." 

lie  recalled  her  as  a  small  girl  in  short  dresses,  with 
a  scarlet  hair  ribbon— a  lonely  figure  in  the  playground 
of  Miss  MorrLs's  school,  where  the  other  children  had 
been  suspicious  of  her  as  the  sister  of  the  tyrant. 
There  had  been  something  "queer"  about  her.  They 
had  accused  her  of  spying  on  them  and  of  carrying  re- 
ports of  their  behaviour  to  Miss  Morris;  and  he  felt  the 


236 


D0N-A-DREAM8 


shame  now,  of  having  been  a  party  to  such  an  accusa- 
tion. 

She  said:  "I  should  have  known  you,  I  think." 

"You  've  —You  've  changed,"  he  apologized. 

She  fanned  herself  in  a  reflective  silence.  "Yes,  I 
suppose  I  have." 

Pittsey  put  in:  "You  've  changed  your  name,  at 
least. ' ' 

"I  've  added  a  '  son,'"  she  said. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  Miss  Arden  laughed.  "How  shock- 
ing!" 

She  ignored  the  remark  in  a  way  which  Don  was  t() 
find  characteristic ;  and  she  continued  her  conversation 
with  him  as  if  she  were  insensible  of  the  presence  of  the 
others.  He  was  surprised  to  discover  from  her  ques- 
tions that  she  knew  he  had  gone  to  college  with  Conroy 
and  had  not  completed  his  Freshman  year;  that  she 
remembered  Frankie  and  him  at  the  High  School, 
where  she  had  looked  up  to  him  from  a  lower  "form." 
It  was  evident  that  she  had  shared  the  curiosity  of  the 
elder  Miss  Morris  in  the  progress  through  life  of  one 
of  her  first  pupils.  He  exchanged  smiling  reminiscences 
of  Coulton  with  her,  and  told  her  what  had  become  of 
this  one  and  that  one  of  the  companions  of  their 
school  days,  in  return  for  similar  gossip  concerning 
others  with  whom  she  had  remained  in  touch.  And 
when  he  left  her — at  Miss  Arden 's  announcement  that 
it  was  time  they  were  all  in  their  beds — ^he  carried  away 
with  him  a  pleased  glow  of  surprise  at  having  met  a 
stranger  who  had  been,  for  years  and  unknown  to  him, 
a  friendly  well-wisher. 


THE  IDEALIST 


237 


He  learned  from  Walter  Pittsey  that  she  was  on  the 
stage.  "She  used  to  be  in  comic  opera,  I  think,"  he 
said,  "probably  in  the  chorus.  She  's  aiming  at  the 
legitimate  now,  but  I  imagine  she  's  not  doing  much. 
No  temperament.  She  makes  a  good  show-girl,  I  sup- 
pose.   She  ought  to  be  singing  in  a  church  choir. ' ' 

But  it  was  not  her  lack  of  temperament  that  struck 
Don  in  the  meetings  that  followed;  it  was  a  strange 
effect  she  gave  him  of  being  concealed  in  her  own  body 
—hidden  behind  her  beauty  that  attracted  an  admira- 
tion which  did  not  reach  her  real  self —silent,  or  speak- 
ing as  if  from  a  distance  of  thought.  She  was  younger 
than  Miss  Arden,  who  was  a  woman  of  thirty-five,  at 
least,  and  already  puffy  under  the  eyes  and  hollow  in 
the  cheeks  where  she  might  have  been,  at  some  time, 
dimpled.  And  yet  Miss  Arden  seemed  younger  in  heart, 
chattered  more  spiritedly  and  laughed  with  less  reserve. 
When  they  made  an  excursion  in  the  street  car  to  Fort 
George,  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  she  was  gaily  juvenile 
beside  Miss  Morris's  staid  sobriety;  and,  with  Walter 
Pittsey,  she  made  the  life  of  the  party,  while  Don  and 
Miss  Morris  listened,  watched  and  smiled. 

They  rode  between  the  monotonous  fronts  of  cheap 
apartment  houses,  that  were  rusty  with  the  iron  bal- 
conies of  fire  escapes  and  overflowing  with  tenants  who 
hung  out  the  windows  panting,  or  crowded,  for  air, 
to  the  doors.  They  rode,  behind  the  motorman's  insis- 
tent gong,  through  the  games  of  the  street  chiklren,  and 
were  deafened  by  competitive  shrieks.  They  came  to 
the  hills  of  the  suburbs,  covered  with  patient  ceme- 
teries, orphan  asylums,  homes  for  the  aged  and  the  blind 


238 


DON-A-DREAMS 


-all  as  quiet  as  prisong-the  field  hospitals  for  that 
army  of  workers  encamped  in  the  city  below.  And 
they  ended  on  the  veranda  of  a  cafe  crowning  a  breezy 
hilltop  above  the  river  valley  and  facing  a  peacefully 
wooded  horizon  that  was  smoke-blue  in  the  mist  of  a 
humid  midsummer  afternoon. 

The  ■  they  ate  trieolored  ices  and  drank  cool  drinks 
while  Pittsey  and  Miss  Arden  discussed  the  affairs  of 
"the  profesh,"  and  Miss  Morris  turned  to  the  breezt^ 
with  a  thoughtful  languor  that  showed  in  the  slow 
movements  of  her  eyes  as  she  looked  from  the  rover  up 
the  sides  of  the  valley  and  across  the  hilltops,  peak  aft.r 
peak.  When  Pittsey  proposed  that  they  stroll  down  the 
slope  through  the  inviting  underwoods,  she  said:  "I  '11 
wait  for  you  here." 

It  was  Don  who  remained,  by  tacit  consent  of  the 
others,  to  keep  her  company. 

She  watched  a  bird  soaring  and  sailing  over  the  val- 
ley; and  she  asked,  without  taking  her  eyes  from  it- 
''Won't  you  smoke?"  He  replied,  in  the  same  ton^ 
that  It  would  be  "a  crime"  to  soil  such  a  breeze  with 
the  smell  of  tobacco.  The  bosom  of  her  light  gown  rose 
and  fell  over  a  long  sigh;  she  laid  her  arm  along  the 
veranda  rail,  and  the  drooping  line  from  her  round 
shoulder  to  her  curved  wrist  and  relaxed  hand  had  the 
unstudied  grace  of  all  her  unconscious  poses.  II.> 
smiled  with  an  esthetic  satisfaction  in  her  beauty  that 
repeated  the  repose  of  the  calm  distance  and  held  the 
color  of  his  mood;  and  he  was  the  more  irritated-by 
the  intrusion  of  the  world  they  had  left  behind  theiii 
-when  she  asked  abruptly:  "Are  you  going  on  the 
stage?" 


THE  IDEALIST  239 

He  replied:  "I  don't  know  what  I  'm  going  to  do. 
I 'm  taking  anything  I  can  get.    .    .    Why?" 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "it  's  all  so  hateful !"  And  with  a 
suddenness  that  amazed  him,  he  found  himself  behind 
the  barriers  of  her  silence  and  admitted  to  a  confldence 
which-though  at  the  time  it  moved  him  to  a  recipro- 
cation in  kind-he  was  to  look  back  upon  doubtfully 
as  if  it  had  been  an  indelicacy.  "If  I  were  a  man,  I  'd 
do  anything-anything  but  tkat-dig  ditches,  anything 
-work  on  a  farm,  anything.  You  don't  know  what  it 
is-the  managers,  the  women— such  vulgarity— and  to 
be  set  up  on  a  platform  to  be  stared  at,  like  a  freak  in  a 
dime  museum !  ...  If  I  had  learned  something- 
something  to  make  a  living  by !"  But  she  had  only  her 
music  and  her  singing;  and  her  music  was  nothing,  and 
her  singing  was  scarcely  fit  for  the  chorus.  She  had 
gone  into  the  "legitimate "-as  they  called  their  serious 
attempts  to  be  dramatie-because  the  life  of  a  chorus 
girl  was  a  disgusting  vanity  to  her.  She  had  not  suc- 
ceeded. "I  can't  do  the  things  they  do  to  succeed," 
she  said.    "And  neither  can  you." 

"No,"  he  replied,  "perhaps  I  can't.  .  .  Though 
I  've  done  one  thing  since  I  came  here— a  thing  I 
did  n't  believe  I  could  ever  have  done.  And  I  never 
will  again.    Never!" 

The  emotion  gave  his  face  a  life  which  she  had  not 
seen  in  it  before.  She  raised  her  arm  on  the  rail  and 
leaned  her  cheek  against  her  hand,  watching  him. 

"Besides,"  he  argued,  "what  difference  does  it 
make  whether  we  succeed  or  not  1  What  difference  will 
it  make  in  a  hundred  years  from  now-so  long  as  we    . 


^  DON-A-DREAMS 

''TnLv  "°^" '".f  ^'•'"'^-'"'y'hinK  to  be  ariiamod  of 

"Yos,"  she  said.  "A  hundred  years  from  now'- 
She  gazed  out  over  the  valley,  thinking  of  the  crowde.! 
cemetenes  she  had  passed  in  the  street  car.  She  si«h..,l 
^  I^wonder  where  we  '11  be  in  a  hundred  yean,  f,.,,,,. 

I  kner''"^''"'"  "  '""''"*'  ""*""'  **""*  '"'  '■''^''''''  =  "^  "i^'' 

"They  were  happier,"  she  said,  "those  people  in  the 
graveyards.  They  had  something  to  believe  in  "  she 
came  out  of  her  reverie  to  find  him  leaning  toward,  h.r 
acr^  the  table,  saying  exfeitedly:  "So  haNe  we  I"' 

she  stared  at  him.  "What?" 

"Something  to  believe  in." 

She  did  not  reply. 

do.    But  look  here:  ,f  man  was  an  ape,  once,  if  he  lived 
w  caves,  if  he  was  the  savage  brute  that  the  Fiji  Island 
ers  are  now,  he  rose  above  it,  did  n't  he »    He  grew  and 
he  found  out  the  laws  that  governed  his  growth 'and 
he  wrote  them  down,  and  enforced  them,  and  made  a 
rehgion  of  them-did  n't  he?    Well,  to  me,  thllaw 
are  as  real  as  the  laws  of  gravity-every  bit!    And 
i?   ^.^°™«*!°»  behind  them  just  as  sure  as  there  's 
matter  behmd  the  law  of  gravity.    Yes.    They  ean  deny 
hat.    I H  them-    They  have  to  live  in  accordance  wl 
those  a„„,  and  they  know  it.    And  so  do  we.    If  we  do 
what   8  wrong,  we  '11  suflFer  for  it-in  ourselves- just 
he  same  as  we  d  suflfer  in  our  bodies  if  we  did  n  't  obey 
the  laws  of  hygiene !    We—" 


THE  IDEALIST  241 

She  had  looked  over  his  head  at  the  unexpected  return 

of  the  others     He  had  caught  the  waraiuB  in  her 

eiprewion   and  glanced  back,  sitting  up  in  hi.  chair' 

inteilerte^'^'"  '"""'  """"'*•  "^*"'  ^'">  '""^'^ 
Miss  Morris  asked,  defensively:  "Where  did  you  got" 
nttsey  said,  with  an  amused  eye  on  her-  "He   's 

been  having  one  of  his  serious  talks  with  you,  has  hej" 
It   s  a  relief,"  she  repUed  cooUy,  "to  be  talked  to 

sometimes,  as  if  you  had  brains  " 

.U.r'.otT  '".Tu"*^'  *"••  ""  '^'  ^Prightliuess  of 
stage  comedy.    "Ah,  my  dear,  be  careful!    It  's  the 
most  dangerous  form  of  flirtation." 
■'Do  we  start  back  nowf"  Miss  Morris  asked    so 

«rner  '""'-  *^"  '''  --'  --  ^-•> 
They  started  back,  but  she  remained  thoughtfully 
md-fferent  to  them-and  to  him-on  the  street  car  K 
was  not  until  they  were  parting  at  Mrs.  Kahrle's  door, 
hat  she  said,  .n  a  low  aside  to  him:  "Thank  you-for 
«  delightful  afternoon."  And  her  tone  of  gratitude 
was  so  deep  with  suppressed  intensity  that  it  started 

It  was  the  result  of  that  tone-and  of  the  qualms 
of  conscience  which  it  awakened  in  him-that  when  he 
re  urned  to  his  room,  he  sat  down  to  write  to  his  uncle 

tat  HeT.^fwT^'''  "''•^"'""  ""'^  "^  »•-  --part 
before  he  could  meet  her  again.  He  resolved  to  tell  her 
0  what  he  had  done  on  the  Bowery;  and  he  spent  an 
hour,  in  the  evening,  imagining  himself  teUing  her  and 
picturing  her  reception  of  his  confession. 


242 


DON-A-DRBAMS 


That  waa  a  meaaure  of  the  difference  between  hin 
thought  of  her  and  hia  thought  of  Margaret.  He  could 
not  have  imagined  himself  malting  luch  a  confemion  tn 
Margaret.  With  a  lover's  unconscious  duplicity,  even 
in  hia  reveries,  he  concealed  from  her  everything  in 
himself  that  did  not  seem  worthy  of  her. 


•i 

1 

B 


VIII 

Thb  "Bialto,"  on  these  August  mornings,  was  the 
resort  of  all  the  actors  and  actresses  who  were  still  in 
search  of  an  engagement  for  the  "season";  and  Don 
accompanied  Walter  Pittsey,  from  agency  to  agency, 
in  the  atmosphere  of  a  life  that  was  new  to  him.  Here 
were  the  leading  men  of  road  companies,  bearing  them- 
selves with  an  obvious  "stage  presence,"  dressed  in  the 
correct  summer  costume  of  the  footlights  and  preserv- 
ing the  unreality  of  the  stage  in  the  very  faultlessness 
of  clothes  that  had  the  appearance  of  being  part  of  a 
theatrical  "wardrobe."  Here  were  comedians,  more  or 
less  "low,"  who  carried  a  lighter  manner,  a  necktie 
fluttering  in  the  breeze,  a  straw  hat  slanted  over  the 
eyes,  a  hand  waved  in  an  airy  greeting  as  they  hurried 
by.  Chorus  girls  of  conspicuous  complexions,  in  gowns 
of  lace  and  applique,  raised  their  dragging  skirts  to 
show  silk  petticoats  of  pink  or  green,  and  stared  through 
their  heavy  chiffon  veils  at  the  would-be  "ingenues"  in 
their  simple  frocks.  Soubrettes,  "heavies,"  "general 
utilities"  and  young  graduates  from  dramatic  schools. 


THE  IDEALIST 


243 


w«lked  haughtily  past  the  Kroups  of  untrained  and  awk- 
ward beginne™  who  had  reifiBtercd— bh  Don  hnd-with 
111-  BKent  who  engaged  "supers."  And  they  all  passed 
mill  repassed,  met  and  nodded,  bowed  and  shook  hands 
effusively,  in  a  way  that  reminded  Don  of  the  studenU 
in  the  college  corridors,  meeting  after  their  Christmas 
holidays,  hailing  friends  and  acknowli-dginB  acquaint- 
ances. There  was  the  same  air  of  camaraderie,  tem- 
pered by  the  same  marked  distinction  of  distance  in  the 
manner  of  the  upper  years  to  the  lower  ones ;  there  was 
the  same  tone  of  social  irresponsibility  in  the  circle  of 
a  privileged  life ;  and  there  was  the  same  note  of  unreal- 
ity and  evanescence-derived,  in  this  case,  from  the 
exaggerated  manner  of  these  Bohemians  who  "made 
up"  for  the  street  as  if  for  a  stage  entrance  and  walked 
in  the  sunshine  as  if  it  had  been  a  calcium  light. 

But  though  they  reminded  him  of  his  college  days,  it 
was  only  to  make  him  happy  that  he  had  left  those  days 
behind  him.  His  last  letter  from  his  mother  had  brought 
him  word  that  Frank  had  pas.sed  his  "matriculation" 
with  honors,  at  the  head  of  his  school ;  and  Don  was 
glad  of  the  fact  that  his  brother's  rivalry  could  not  pur- 
sue him  to  the  Kialto.  He  contrasted  this  street  with 
the  streets  of  Conlton,  and  his  liberty  here  with  the  life 
which  he  might  have  led  at  home.  The  difference  for 
him  was  all  the  difference  between  romantic  adventure 
and  drab  matter-of-fact.  The  catchwords  of  greeting 
which  he  heard  in  the  waiting  rooms  of  the  agencies— 
"Hello!  What  luck?"— came  to  him  like  the  crou- 
pier's call  to  a  gambler.  Youth  pursued  opportunity  in 
a  game  of  chance  in  which  futures  were  at  stake,  and 


244 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


■&m  > 


1 


™7  *"™rf  ^^'  '"""■  ""^  ^»*'"^«d  ^ith  eagerness 
1  Jus  was  a  hfe  to  keep  the  heart  beating 

He  had  met  Kidder,  the  "super's"  agent,  and  been 
looked  on  w.th  a  favor  whieh  wa«  largely  'of  Wafe 
Pittseys  procuring.  "You  '«>  all  right,"  Pittsey  had 
assured  h.m.  "Kidder  has  a  problem  here,  tr^g  to 
get  mtelhgent-looking  supers.  He  has  to  pick  up  Jl 
sorts  of  bums  and  muekers  to  fill  up  his  ranks.  I  •  ^ 
vou  ^11  IT,  «:;*  \«.«'»»«thing  together.  I  Ve  told  him 
you  11  stay  with  him-though  /  '11  go  on  the  road  if 
I  ean  get  a  part.  He  's  put  us  down  for  an  En.^lish 
thing   hey  're  going  to  begin  rehearsing  next  week!" 

nrlr!       °^        '  '"'"'*'  ■*  ^^'  beginning  of  his  worldly 
progress ;  the  rest  would  be  merely  a  matter  of  time 

t    fZl    V7  P««»do.scientifie  theory  of  religion  to 

ieace  Th!  ^^PP'^^^^T*''^  '^'^'y  ""«  tints  of  distant 
peace.  The  figure  ,n  the  immediate  foreground  of  his 
outlook  was  still  Miss  Morris;  but  he  had  not  yet  had 
his  confessional  tete-a-tete  with  her.  because  she  gaw 
him  no  opportunity  to  do  so.  She  carried  heLif 
among  the  actors  on  the  street  as  if  she  were  ashamed 
of  being  seen  with  them ,  and  she  admitted  to  Don  that 
she  was  sorry  to  see  Am  there.  Why?  "Because  you '11 
never  make  a  success  of  acting,"  she  said.  "It  's 
absurd.  He  tried  to  make  her  understand  that  he  was 
not  ambitious.     "Then  you  should  be,"  she  replied. 

At  least  you  should  be  taking  up  some  work  that  you 
can  remain  m  all  your  life.  I  hope  you  don't  intend 
to  keep  at  this  sort  of  thing  " 

"Why  not?" 


THE  IDEALIST 


245 


She  turned  into  the  door  of  an  office  building  that 
was  full  of  theatrical  agencies.  "Well,"  she  said, 
curtly,  "I  supposed  that  you  intended,  some  day,  to 
settle  down." 

lie  went  back  toward  his  room  undepressed  by  her 
criticism.  Evidently,  as  Walter  Pittsey  had  said,  she 
was  out  of  her  element.  She  should  have  remained  in 
Coulton,  teaching  in  her  sister's  school,  if  settling  down 
made  up  her  idea  of  the  whole  end  and  object  of  life. 

He  hesitated  at  Madison  Square,  intending  to  sit 
under  the  trees  for  a  moment  and  think  it  all  over.  Dut 
he  remembered  that  he  had  left  the  breakfast  dishes 
unwashed  on  the  table ;  and  it  had  been  his  turn,  that 
morning,  to  wash  up.  He  continued  down  Fifth 
Avenue,  in  the  scant  shade  of  mid-day,  tired  by  the 
heat  and  excitement  of  a  crowded  morning. 

As  he  ascended  the  stairs  to  his  rooms,  Bert  Pittsey 
called  over  the  railing:  "Is  that  you,  Don?" 

"Yes.  What  is  it?"  He  supposed  that  Pittsey 
wished  him  to  do  some  shopping  for  luncheon,  and  he 
waited  on  the  step.  Hearing  no  reply,  he  continued  his 
ascent;  and  as  he  approached  the  landing  on  which 
their  apartment  opened,  Pittsey  came  out— his  hat  in 
his  hand— and  *hispered  as  he  escaped  past  him: 
"Your  father's  in  there.  Some  one  's  written  him  that 
you  're  gohig  on  the  stage." 

Don's  irresolution  carried  him  to  the  doorway.  His 
father  was  sitting  beside  the  dining  table ;  it  was  cov- 
ered with  a  disorder  of  stale  food  and  dirty  dishes ;  and 
he  looked  strangely  out  of  place  and  as  if  degraded  by 


246 


DON-A-DREAMS 


the  indignity  of  his  surroundings.     He  did  not  rise 
At  Don  8  challenging  stare,  he  said:  "Well,  come  in  " 
Don  crossed  the  threshold.     His  father  scrutinized 
him  silently  as  if  trying  to  see  in  his  appearance  some 
indication  of  what  had  been  happening  to  him  in  New 
York.    He  was  pale,  shabby,  thin,  and  as  dumb  as  guilt 
Mr.  Gregg  pushed  away  from  him  a  dish  of  half- 
eaten  porridge  that  had  turned  brown  in  its  milk     lie 
put  his  elbow  on  the  table  with  the  air  of  beginning  an 
examination.    "Your  mother  hears  that  you  are  goin^ 
on  the  stage?    Is  this  true?" 
Don  said,  thickly:  "Yes." 

Mr.  Gregg  raised  his  eyebrows.  "Do  you  find  that 
sort  of  life  particularly  inviting?" 
Don  shook  his  head.  "No." 

"You  do  it,  then,  because  you  feel  that  you  have 
great  dramatic  ability?" 

But  this  sarcasm  made  Don  aware  that  he  was  being 
treated  as  a  child,  and  recovering  from  the  first  instinc- 
tive obedience  that  had  moved  his  tongue  in  spite  of 
himself,  he  refused  to  reply. 

Mr.  Gregg  went  on,  slowly:  "Or  is  it  because  the 
wages  are  so  high  for  beginners?  .  .  and  the  prospects 
ol  advancement  so  alluring?" 

Don  looked  up  at  him  with  narrowed  eyes,  meditat- 
ing a  defiant  answer.  His  father  put  in,  quickly  in 
another  tone :  "Don 't  misunderstand  me,  now.  I  have 
not  come  here  to  find  fault  with  you.  I  merely  wish  to 
know  why  you  are  doing  it." 

"Because  there  's  nothing  else,"  he  replied  sullenly. 
His  father  refused  to  accept  the  challenge  of  his  man- 


THE  IDEALIST 


247 


ne-,  but  looked  down,  frowning,  at  the  bare  floor  his 
eyes  concealed  by  his  heavy  grey  eyebrows.  "Surely 
you  don't  think  that?"  he  said.  "Surely  you  under 
stand  that  there  's  a  place  in  life  made  ready  for  you 
m  Coulton-that  there  's  honest  work  for  you  there 
among  your  friends,  among  your  schoolmates  with  a 
home  for  you  to  live  in-and  your  mother.  .  .  She 
has  not  had  a  happy  minute,  you  know,  since  you  left  " 
Don  fumbled  with  his  hat;  this  manner  of  attack 
unnerved  him.    He  had  not  expected  gentleness. 

I  don 't  understand  you, ' '  Mr.  Gregg  continued.  ' '  I 
have  never  professed  to.  I  had  to  leave  these  things  to 
your  mother.  But  I  have  never  been  consciously  unkind 
to  you.  I  have  tried  to  do  my  duty  to  you.  And  it 
seems  to  me  that  you  have  behaved  in  a  way  that  is 
crue!  to  your  mother  and  most  undutiful  to  me  Why 
«iU  Why  are  you  here?  What  is  it  you  wish  to  do 
with  your  life  ?  Surely,  as  your  parents,  we  are  entitled 
to  some  consideration-to  some  explanation." 

He  was  asking  for  a  confidence  which  he  should  never 
have  had  to  ask  for.  It  was  too  late.  It  was  too  late 
for  him  to  ask  from  the  young  man  what  he  had 
repelled  in  the  child  and  never  encouraged  in  the  boy 
Don  struggled  with  himself  to  speak,  but  when  he 
raised  his  eyes  to  his  father,  he  saw  only  the  tyrant  of 
his  past,  now  impotent.  The  figure  of  oppression  had 
shrunken;  he  was  old  and  worried,  and  he  had  even  a 
provincial  appearance  in  his  lawyer's  frock  coat  and 
his  collar  that  was  out  of  style.  He  was  pathetic,  but  he 
was  not  lovable. 
Don. stammered;  "I  can't—  I  can't  explain." 


II: 


I  can't  go  back." 


2^8  DON-A-DBEAMS 

"Why  not?" 

"I  can't  go  back-that  'sail. 
Why  not?" 

door,  and  his  eyes  fell  on  at  "'"''^*  *'"  ^■''"'•'  "*  '"^ 
end  of  the  table     Thih         *  ^ -"^  ^'"'  *'"'*  ^^  "^  '^e 

in.iy.    Helld'ht  eTw  rVr  rhi  '^"" 
up  before  his  father  eame  """^  ^"''"''^ 

wl^^  is  tSS^^-^^T '°^h  r  ^~'^' 

with  US.      will  youl  w^h\  "^l"^  ^"^  *"  '•«*"™ 

mef"     When  Ci?  ^    ^      """'*  y""  ^"'  ""*  ^'th 

« wiy  :'^y:u  uXr:  tL  rji^i ;:  -'''  r- 

to  remain  here     Anv  -^  ""^  "^^'^t  yu 

''Ton  tell  a  falsehood!" 

"I  borro^red  money  from  him     I_" 

"Exactly." 

"I  'U  pay  it  back." 

single  penny  yet?"         ^"^  ^'^^-    Have  you  earned  a 
Don  shut  his  lips.    He  felt  that  no  matter  what  a  son 


hV 


THE  IDEALIST 


249 


of  his  had  done,  he  could  not  have  stung  him  with  such 
a  taunt  as  that.    And  his  tnought  showed  in  his  face. 

"Well,  then,"  his  father  cried,  "answer  me!  What 
do  you  hope  to  do  here?  Why  did  yon  leave  college? 
Why  do  you  refuse  to  come  home  ?  Do  you  hear?"  He 
brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table  with  a  blow  that 
jarred  the  dishes.    ' '  Answer  me ! " 

Don  threw  out  a  hand  in  one  of  those  nervous  and  fu- 
tile gestures  that  were  characteristic  of  him.  "Because 
I  can't!    Because  I  won't!    Because  there  's  nothing 
there— the  life— nothing !    I  hate  it.    I  'd  die  first." 
The  lawyer  pointed  a  keen  finger  at  him.    "You  '11 
die  here— or  you  '11  do  worse.    You  've  been  here  now 
a  whole  summer,  and  you  're  no  farther  ahead  than  you 
were  the  day  you  came.    Don't  think  you  can  deceive 
me.    I  know  you.    You  're  as  foolish— as  unpractical- 
.»a  a  girl.    You  've  been  living  on  the  money  you  had 
from  your  aunt  and  your  uncle.    When  you  have  n't 
that— you  '11  have  nothing.    You  're  living  a  beggar's 
life  now,  and  you  refuse  to  come  home  because  there 
you  'd  have  to  work.    The  fear  of  work  drove  you  to 
college.    You  idled  for  a  whole  year,  and  when  your 
examinations  impended  you  ran  away.    You  're  a  lazy 
loafer.    You  '11  come  home  and  get  to  work— or  you  '11 
stay  here  and  starve.     Your  uncle  will  help  you  no 
more.    I  '11  see  to  that!" 

Don  swallowed,  white.    "Thanks.    If  you  won't  help 
me,  at  least  you  can — " 
"Help  you !    Help  you  to  what ? ' ' 
He  threw  his  hat  on  the  table.    "I  don't  want  your 
help.    I  don't  want  anybody's  help.    I  'm  going  to  live 


250 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


I    C 


my  life  in  my  own  way."  He  took  up  the  frying  pan 
and  the  coffee  pot  and  carried  them  into  the  kitchen. 
"Leave  me  alone;  that  's  all.  I  can  take  care  of  my- 
self." ' 

He  began  to  clear  off  the  table,  filling  the  kettle  and 
making  the  dishes  ready  in  the  washpan.  He  was 
trembling  with  a  resentful  determination,  tall,  fragile, 
pitiful  in  this  ludicrous  occupation  of  scullion. 

WTien  he  went  into  the  kitchen,  his  father  wiped  hi.s 
forehead,  his  eyes  wandering  over  the  poor  discom- 
forts of  the  room— which  he  had  thought  to  find  Don 
eager  to  leave-baffled,  but  still  resolved  to  take  the 
son  home  to  the  mother  and  save  him  from  this 
folly.  He  had  tried  sarcasm,  gentleness,  abuse  and 
anger;  he  had  played  all  the  tricks  which  his  trade  use.s 
to  draw  the  truth  from  the  witness  in  the  box !  and  as 
yet  he  did  not  even  understand  what  it  was  that  his  son 
was  concealing  from  him,  what  had  brought  the  boy 
here,  what  kept  him  here,  what  he  hoped  to  find  here 
that  he  could  not  find  at  home. 

He  lighted  a  cigar  which  he  had  accepted  from  his 
brother-in-law  on  their  railroad  journey  together;  and 
he  smoked  it  as  if  he  did  not  know  that  it  was  in  his 
mouth— his  eyes  darting  from  point  to  point  of  the  evi- 
dence which  he  had  gathered  from  Mr.  McLean,  from 
Pittsey  and  from  Don  himself— his  eyebrows  working 
—sometimes  shaking  his  head,  and  more  than  once  clos- 
ing his  hands  on  a  parental  impulse  to  thrash  the  young 
fool  into  submission  and  take  him  home  by  the  ear. 

Don  washed  and  dried  the  dishes,  emptied  the  water 
into  the  sink,  scoured  the  pan,  hung  up  the  dish  rag, 


THE  IDEALIST 


251 


washed  his  hands,  and  at  last  had  no  further  excuse  to 
keep  him  from  the  dining-room. 

He  did  not  look  at  his  father.  lie  filled  his  pipe  and 
sat  down  beside  the  window. 

"Well,"  Mr.  Grepg  said,  with  a  calculated  mildness, 
"if  you  are  going  to  stay  here,  will  you  tell  me  what 
you  intend  to  do?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  're  going  on  the  stage?" 

"Yes.    I  'm  going  on  the  stage." 

"As  your  life  work?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"You  have  no  training  for  it." 

"No." 

"You  hope  to  succeed  at  it?" 

"I  don't  hope  to  succeed  very  well  at  anything." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  care  whether  I  do  or  not." 

"You  don't  care  whether  you  succeed  or  not?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"There  are  other  things  in  life  more  important." 

"What  are  they?" 

"Oh,  you  know  them  as  well  as  I  do." 

Mr.  Gregg  studied  his  cigar  with  an  admirable  self- 
restraint.    "You  hope  to  marry,  I  suppose." 

"I  suppose  80." 

"To  support  your  wife  and  children!" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"On  the  stage?" 

"Or  in  some  other  way." 


252 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


"You  have  n't  decided  howT" 
"No." 

"Do  you  appreciate  the  difficulty  of  making  an  hon- 
est  livmg  for  a  wife  and  family  in  a  city  where  you 
have  no  friends,  no  relatives?    You  are  starting  out 
here,  l.ke  a  man  in  a  new  country,  and  you  are  leaving 
behind  you,  in  Coulton,  all  the  assistance  that  would 
make  the  way  easy  for  you. " 
"I  understand  all  that.    I  can 't  go  back  to  Coulton. " 
air.  Gregg  sprang  the  next  question  like  a  trap- 
Who  IS  the  young  woman?" 
Don  did  not  answer. 
"Is  it  Miss  Morris?" 
He  flushed  resentfully. 

"Do  you  think  she  would  sooner  have  yon  on  the 
stage  than  in  some  honest  employment?  Do 

you  think  she  would  be  happier  here  than  in  Coulton? 
.    .    .  i>o  you?" 

father.  What  's  the  use  ? "  he  said  wildly.  ' '  What  's 
the  use  of  all  this?  I  could  n't  make  you  understand 
If  we  were  to  keep  this  up  forever.  You  don't-  The 
things  that  are  important  to  you,  to  Coulton,  I  don't 
care  that  for."  He  tossed  th,m  away  with  his  bony  hand, 
the  things  that  make  up  my  life— if  I  were  to  tell 

T"?''!^'^  '""^^  "*  '"'•  "^y  «an't  you  leave  me 
alone?  Why  can't  you  go  away  and  leave  me  alone?" 
Ber-mise,  unfortunately,  you  're  my  son.  Because 
your  mother  worries  herself  sick  about  you.  Because 
she  s  111  and  weak,  and  this  is  killing  her.  Because  "- 
He  raised  his  voice  in  a  trembling  passion-"you  owe 


THE  IDEALIST 


253 


it  to  her,  you  ungrateful  dog,  to  go  back  there  and 
behave  yourself.  Do  you  think  I  care!  If  it 
were  n't  for  her—  God!  that  it  should  be  in 
your  power  to  make  a  woman  suflft-r,  and  lie 
sleepless,  and  watch  me  as  if  I  were  a  brute  that  had 
driven  you  out  of  the  house!"  He  clenched  his  hands, 
with  a  terrible  face.  "  You  callous  young  hound !  This 
is  the  important  thing  in  life!  To  make  every  one 
miserablo  that  loves  you!  To  kill  the  mother  that 
almost  gave  her  life  for  you  once  already !  To  break 
up  the  home  that  sheltered  you!  Oh,  you  wheln! 
You-" 

"Stop!"  Don  gasped.  The  horror  of  the  accusation 
was  more  than  he  could  bear  to  listen  to.  "I  won't— 
1  won't—  "  He  caught  up  his  hat  and  ran  to  the  door. 
"I  won't-" 

His  father  heard  him  slip  and  fall  on  the  stairs. 
He  stood  holding  to  the  table,  until  he  heard  nothing 
but  the  noises  from  the  street  echoing  in  a  dull  rumble 
in  the  air-court  outside  the  window.  Then  he  sat  down 
to  wait. 

Don  did  not  return. 


He  did  not  return  until  late  at  night,  and  then  he  came 
limping,  to  find  Bert  Pitt&ey  sitting  alone  at  the  dining 
table  working  on  one  of  his  "specials."  Conroy  had 
packed  his  trunk  and  departed  with  his  father.  There 
had  been  no  messages  left  for  Don,  except  a  note  from 
his  uncle  enclosing  a  small  cheek  and  advising  him  to 
return  home. 
He  sat  down  to  write  a  letter  of  frantic  affection  to 


n;l 


254  DON-A-DREAMS 

Jiis  mother,  appealing  to  her  not  to  worry  about  him 
exonerating  his  father  from  all  responsibility  for  his 
misbehaviour  and  promising  an  impossible  success  for 
himself  and  an  end  of  all  trouble  for  her  in  the  neur 
future.  His  hand,  wet  with  perspiration,  stuck  to  the 
pages  as  hig  pen  trembled  across  them. 

He  wrote  another  letter  to  his  uncle,  returning  the 
check  with  thanks.  He  ate  bread  and  butter  at  mid- 
night, chewing  mechanically,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  lamp  ■ 
and  then  he  went  to  his  bed,  alone,  abandoned,  with  a 
sinking  tremor  of  nervous  apprehension  that  lay  like  a 
nightmare  on  him  in  the  stifling  darkness  and  heat  of 
the  room. 


11 

ill 

k 

'W9 


IX 

He  woke  defiant.  He  ignored  the  implied  reprobation 
of  Bert  Pittsey's  silence  concerning  Conroy's  depar 
ture  although  he  knew  that  Pittsey  must  despise  him 
for  having  betrayed  Conroy  to  his  father.  He  ignored 
Conroy's  upbraidings,  received  in  a  letter  which  he 
destroyed  without  reply.  He  arranged  that  Walter 
Pittsey  should  take  the  vacant  share  in  the  apartment 
and  made  no  explanation  to  his  friend,  although  h,' 
could  see  that  Waller  expected  one.  He  told  himself 
that  he  had  done  what  was  right;  and  he  did  not  care 
What  any  one  thought  of  it.  He  was  going  to  live  hi.s 
own  life  in  his  own  way. 

In  that  mood  of  bitter  isolation,  a  letter  from  Mar- 
garet in  Leipzig,  came  to  him  like  a  message  of  affee- 


THE  IDEALIST  255 

fionate  trust,  althougrh  there  was  nothinjr  in  it  but  her 
usual  friendship.  She  wiis  worried  by  the  fact  that  the 
failure  of  Mrs.  Richardson's  investments  had  forced 
them  to  pra.-tiso  tlw  meanest  economies.  "I  shall  have 
to  earn  my  living  now,  without  joking.  Do  you  want 
any  more  music  lessons?  Do  you  remember  your  tti-st 
oni'?  Are  you  keepir- up  your  practice?  Do  not  be 
surprised  if  you  see  me  in  New  York  suddenly,  because 
we  are  actually  afraid  of  being  left  here  without  money, 
811  far  from  home,  and  mother  is  tired  of  traveling  on 
nothing.  I  do  not  know  what  may  happen.  How  are 
you  getting  on  f    Write  to  me  here. ' ' 

He  wrote  her  a  long  impassioned  reply  that  was  a 
sort  of  confession  of  faith  in  her  and  in  aU  the  ideals 
which  he  associated  with  her  in  his  thoughts;  and  he 
went  to  his  rehearsals,  with  Walter  Pittsey,  in  the 
stilted  manner  of  a  martyr  who  has  been  fortified  by  a 
secret  communion  with  a  priest  of  hh  religion. 

He  found  that  Miss  Morris  had  been  engaged  as  a 
"walking  lady"-an  "extra"  like  himself.  He  sup- 
posed-from  the  way  in  which  she  avoided  him-that 
Walter  Pittsey  had  told  hei  how  he  had  betrayed  his 
cousin. 


For  the  first  week,  of  course,  he  was  drilled  in  his  street 
clothes,  on  a  stripped  stage,  in  the  choking  twilight  of 
a  closed  theater,  suffering  all  tho  indignities  of  being 
driven,  with  the  herd  of  "supers,"  by  a  raucous  stage 
manager  who  continually  exhorted  them  to  "put  more 
guts"  into  their  work-an  expression  which  revolted 
Don  like  an  indecency.    But  with  the  dress  rehearsal 


2S6 


DON-A-DREAMS 


■J 


came  the  excitement  of  "making  up"  under  Pittsey's 
direction— for  Pittsey  was  acting  at  the  "head  of  the 
•upen";  and  when  Don  had  put  on  the  top  hat,  tli.' 
frock  coat  and  the  other  morning  wear  of  an  English 
gentleman  of  fashion  on  the  stage,  he  smiled  at  himself 
in  the  pier  glass  of  the  dressing  room,  stroking,  like 
a  dandy,  with  his  gloved  fingers,  the  gummed  moustachi- 
that  was  tickling  on  his  upper  lip.  For  the  first  titiie, 
the  element  of  "make-believe"  in  the  work  appealed  In 
him. 

Kidder,  the  agent— who  not  only  furnished  the  super- 
numeraries but  acted  as  a, sort  of  overseer  of  them  whin 
they  were  not  on  the  stagc-eame  into  the  room  on  his 
round  of  the  theaters,  and  complimented  Don  on  his 
appearance.  "That  looks  well  on  you,"  he  said,  with 
intent  to  flatter;  for  in  his  business  of  supplying 
"extras,"  he  found  it  difficult  to  get  youths  of  Don's 
intelligence  and  more  difficult  still  to  retain  them.  His 
praise  was  sweet  to  Don;  and  it  added  the  final  touch 
to  his  pleasure  to  find  himself  in  a  profession  where 
such  amenities  were  practised. 

He  raced  upstairs  after  Pittsey,  to  take  his  place 
among  those  others  who  were  to  represent  a  crowd  of 
promenaders  on  the  Strand,  in  the  first  scene 
of  the  play;  and  now  the  game  of  make-be- 
lieve was  gorgeously  colored  and  dazzlingly  alight. 
He  smiled  at  the  boys  in  their  grease-paint  that 
gave  them  the  complexion  of  young  Sioux,  and  at  the 
girls  In  their  rouge  that  added,  in  its  exaggeration  of 
unreality,  a  charm  of  something  romantic  to  their 
young  cheeks.    When  the  stage  manager  called:  "Take 


THE  IDEALIST 


257 


jronr  places.  Take  your  placea!"— and  the  rehearsal 
!»g«ni— Don  sauntered  out  into  the  sunny  glare  of  the 
calcium  light  and  saw  Miss  Morris  cmiing  across  the 
boards  toward  him,  a  haughty  Er  isip  beauty  in  a 
rammer  gown,  under  a  flowered  wi  .  .,1.  :  i,  Ued 
his  hat  to  her,  smiling  gallantly 

She  dropped  her  handkerchi  1  .tu'doc  l,\  tliechi-!  -e 
which  the  grease  paint  and  tlii'  Tils  i iou.ii»t:ti>  m"!  the 
line  clothes  had  made  in  him.  lie  pi.  !-f  !  ;»  j|.  •,  ,•  her, 
with  a  flourish.  He  shook  iiundn  v  i  li  lur,  uhouliler- 
high.  "May  I  have  the  pleasure  of  h  turn  im  f »  ■  Strand 
with  youf"  he  asked  gaily.  "Most -.■i-l  ,  nly.  j  Hliould 
be  delighted!"  she  replied,  in  the  yuiae;  and  they 
returned  together  to  the  wings.  Miss  Morris  gone  ner- 
vous with  the  knowledge  that  the  stage  manager  had 
been  watching  their  by-play. 

"All  right,"  he  said  to  them  gruffly.  "Leave  that 
business  in.  It  'II  do.  Go  ahead."  He  called  to  the 
others:  "Not  so  fast  there.    This  's  no  foot  race." 

Pittsey  warned  them,  when  they  met  in  the  opposite 
wings:  "You  're  in  luck  that  he  did  n't  call  you  down. 
You  'd  better  not  put  in  anything  else  that  you  don't 
get  from  him." 

Don  slapped  his  leg  with  his  cane.  "Had  to  do  it," 
he  laughed.  "I  could  n't  leave  the  lady  to  pick  up  her 
own  handkerchief." 

But  he  did  almost  leave  it  to  her  to  pick  up,  on  the 
opening  night  of  the  play;  for  as  soon  as  he  stepped 
out  on  the  stage,  he  was  aware  that  the  footlights  stood 
at  the  mouth  of  a  black  cave  from  which  the  audience, 
like  some  huge  animal  with  a  thousand  pairs  of  eyes, 

17 


258 


DON-A-DREAMS 


was  watching,  in  a  malevolent  silence,  every  movement 
of  the  actors ;  and  he  went  stiff  with  an  attack  of  stage 
fright.  Miss  Morris  steadied  him  with  a  cordial  clasp 
of  the  hand.  "  It  's  all  right, ' '  she  said  under  her  voice. 
"No  one  is  looking  at  us,  you  know.  We  're  only  to  fill 
in  a  background.  You  turn  around  with  me."  He 
recovered  himself  as  soon  as  their  turning  brought  her 
between  him  and  the  audience.  He  laughed  at  himself 
when  they  reached  the  wings. 

The  scene  was  a  "box-set,"  representing  a  jewelry 
shop  with  stools  and  counters;  and  the  promenade  of 
supers  passed  across  an  (^ening  in  the  rear  wall  of  the 
"set,"  where  gaps  of  white  gauze  represented  the  plate 
glass  of  two  huge  display  windows  and  a  double  door. 
While  the  first  act  worked  itself  out,  in  the  loud  voices 
of  the  principal  actors  neai-  the  footlights.  Miss  Morris 
and  he  crossed  and  recrosst  i  'he  windows  in  this  stream 
of  "extras,"  or  stood  chatting  with  Walter  Pittsey  in 
the  wings  until  it  should  be  their  turn  to  cross  again. 
Her  cheeks  were  flaming  with  rouge ;  her  eyebrows  were 
pencilled;  her  eyelashes  were  as  thick  as  black  pins 
with  "cosmetique";  and  these  artificialities  gave  her 
beauty  a  coquettish  enticement  for  Don.  He  was  grate- 
ful to  her  for  having  held  him  up  when  he  had  faltered 
over  the  handkerchief.  She  smiled  and  chatted  rather 
archly,  enjoying  his  good  spirits  and  the  way  in  which 
his  eyes  clung  to  her,  admiringly. 

It  was  near  the  end  of  the  act  that  he  asked  her, 
apropos  of  nothing:  "By  the  way,  how  did  my  father 
know  I  had  met  you— here?" 

They  were  in  the  middle  of  their  passage  across  the 


THE  IDEALIST  259 

rtage,  and  as  they  neared  the  wings  her  public  smile  of 
high  society  slowly  froze.  "Perhaps,"  she  said,  "be- 
cause I  wrote  my  sister  so." 

"Oh."     They  moved  into  the  shadow  behind  the 
reflector  of  the  calcium  light.    "Did  you  tell  her  that  I 
was.    .    .    going  in  for  this  sort  of  thing  f" 
There  was  a  note  of  defiance  in  her  flat  "Tes." 
He  stood  in  front  of  her,  studying  the  reflection  of 
that  tone  in  her  face.    He  hesitated  to  believe  what  it 
implied.    "She  must  have  told  him  so,"  he  suggested. 
"I  asked  her  to." 
"You-!" 

"I  wanted  them  to  stop  you,"  she  said,  uncompromis- 
ingly.    "I  did  n't  think  you  should  do  it." 

He  did  not  reply.    She  opened  her  parasol,  prepara- 
tory to  taking  her  turn  again  in  the  promenade.    When 
she  looked  up  at  him,  she  found  him  smiling  doubtfully. 
"You  're  as  bad  as  I  am,"  he  said. 
She  did  not  understand  him,  being  ignorant  of  his 
affair  with  Conroy.    "I  beg—" 

They  were  interrupted  by  a  cry  down  the  stage— the 
cry  that  was  the  signal  for  all  the  street  crowd  to  rush 
to  the  windows  of  the  shop  and  gaze  in  at  an  actor 
who  was  shouting  "Police!  Thieves!  Police!"  Don 
lost  her  in  the  jostle.  When  the  curtain  fell  on  the  act, 
he  went  downstairs  to  the  supers'  dressing  room,  with 
in  expression  of  face  that  puzzled  Walter  Pittsey. 

It  puzzled  Miss  Morris  even  more  when  he  joined  her 
in  the  background  of  the  next  scene;  and  his  amused 
explanation  that  her  treachery  relieved  him  of  the 
guilt  of  his  own  left  her  still  in  the  dark.    She  did  not 


260 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


lit  J 
lb:*.'-,  ■ 


get  his  point  of  view.  While  he  was  telling  her  of  his 
quarrel  with  his  father,  she  took  his  father's  part 
against  him,  in  her  thoughts;  and  when  he  made  a 
clean  breast  of  his  betrayal  of  Conroy,  she  sympathized 
with  his  victim  and  blamed  him.  She  waa  accustomed 
to  judge  actions  by  the  wisdom  and  justice  of  their 
results;  the  fact  that  he  considered  only  the  moral 
impulse  that  inspired  the  act  escaped  her.  She  was 
relieved  by  his  smiling  forgiveness  of  her  interference 
in  his  affairs,  but  she  did  not  see  why  this  interference 
should  draw  him  to  her. 

They  were  separated  hy  the  movement  of  the  play  and 
did  not  meet  again  until  the  third  act,  set  to  represent 
an  English  lawn  party  in  which  they  sat  at  one  of  a 
number  of  rustic  tables  among  stage  trees.  It  was 
necessary  that  they  should  appear  to  be  engaged  in  an 
animated  conversation,  oblivious  to  the  actions  of  the 
principals  who  spoke  their  lines  in  the  foreground  of 
the  scene ;  and  she  asked  him  how  he  liked  his  new  pro- 
fession of  actor.  He  replied  that  he  liked  it  very  much 
—but  he  could  not  tell  why.  Certainly  it  would  enable 
him  to  live  without  borrowing.  He  was  to  be  paid  75 
cents  a  performance;  so  that,  with  the  two  mat- 
inees, he  would  receive  six  dollars  a  week.  He 
was  looking  around  for  something  to  do  in  the  idle 
mornings.  ' '  At  any  rate,  it  's  better  than  boosting  on 
Bowery,"  he  said;  and  he  proceeded  to  tell  her  of  that 
adventure. 

It  led  up  to  'he  problemc  which  he  had  discussed  with 
AValter  Pittsoy  in  Central  Park,  and  thence  to  the  ques- 
tion of  religion  which  he  had  broached  with  her  on  the 


THE  IDEALIST 


261 


veranda  of  the  cafe  at  Port  George.  And  looking  out 
thoughtfully  at  the  actors  strutting  and  posturing 
against  the  glow  of  the  footlights,  he  tried  to  tell  her  of 
another  conclusion  which  had  come  to  him  in  his  soli- 
tary debates  with  himself. 

"Almost  the  first  thing  I  can  remember,"  he  said,  "is 
the  Christmas  eve  when  I  found  out  that  there  was  no 
Santa  Claus.  I  don't  think- 1  can't  tell  you  what 
a  shock  it  was."  He  smiled.  "Nothing  that  has  hap- 
pened to  me  since— about  religion— hit  me  harder. 
But  don't  you  see  that  thu-e  is  a  Santa  Claus!  He 
is  n't  a  man  in  a  fur  coat— and  a  reindeer  sleigh  and 
all  that— but  he  is  the  spirit  of  Christmas,  is  n't  he? 
They  've  personified  that,  and  made  a  saint  of  him,  and 
invented  legends  about  him— for  the  children— but 
when  we  're  no  longer  children,  and  don't  believe  in 
him,  we  still  have  that  Christmas  spirit— and  it  's  that 
that  gives  presents  and  makes  us  feel  Kindly  towards 
one  another,  and  makes  Christmas  what  it  is.  .  .  Is  n't 
it?  .  .  .  Well,  that  's  the  way  it  is  about  these  other 
things.  They  'rt  true— if  they  're  not  true  in  the  way 
we  used  to  think  they  were." 

She  nodded,  somewhat  nervously.  She  felt  the 
absurdity  of  such  a  conversation  in  such  surroundings, 
and  she  was  afraid  that  someone  miglit  overhear  it. 
She  was  relieved  when  the  stage  dialogue  gave  them  the 
cue  to  retire  into  the  wings,  where  they  parted. 


Nevertheless,  she  admired  in  him  this  almost  ludi- 
crous earnestness,  as  one  admires  in  another  a  (juality 
which  shame  conceals  in  oneself.     She  gave  up  her 


262 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


attempts  to  inspire  him  with  her  own  aversion  for  the 
stage;  and  seeing  the  childish  pleasure  which  he  had  in 
his  work,  she  tried  to  help  him  by  her  criticisms  and 
her  counsel.  She  had  been  trained  in  a  "dramatic 
school,"  and  she  endeavored  to  give  him  the  benefit  of 
that  training  in  her  advice.  She  found,  to  her  greater 
bewilderment,  that  he  did  not  wish  to  be  an  actor;  that 
the  very  thought  of  coming  out  before  the  opera  glasses 
and  mimicking  love  or  grief  or  any  of  his  private  emo- 
tions, was  enough  to  make  him  blush.  "I  could  n't," 
he  said.  "Really—  I  know  I  could  n't."  It  was  rather 
a  joke  to  masquerade,  unknown  to  the  public,  in  the 
ranks  of  the  silent ;  but  imagine—  He  looked  out  at  the 
leading  man  making  stage  love  to  the  leading  woman  in 
a  voice  to  reach  the  galleries.—  Imagine  him  doing  that ! 
"Well,  for  goodness'  sake,"  she  said,  "what  do  you 
want  to  dot  And  why  don't  you  find  out,  and  go  ahead 
and  do  itJ" 
"I  am.  I  want  to  live.  And  I  am  living." 
"That  's  all  very  well  for  the  present— but  what 
about  your  future?  You  don't  intend  to  be  a  super  all 
your  life!" 

"I  don't  intend  anything,  any  more,"  he  replied  con- 
tentedly. "I  *m  tired  of  planning  futures  that  never 
work  out.  Things  will  develop  in  their  own  way.  I  'm 
not  troubling  about  them." 

She  turned  away  from  him  with  a  gesture  of  exas- 
peration which  he  did  not  understand;  and  she  went 
from  him  to  Pittsey  who  had  been  watching  Don  and 
her  together  with  the  mild  curiosity  that  was  natural 
to  him. 


THE  IDEALIST  263 

He  had  been  wondering  why  she  remained  so  long  an 
"extra"  in  this  company,  instead  of  finding  a  better 
engagement  with  some  other,  now  that  the  season  had 
well  begun  and  all  the  stages  were  busy.     When  he 
asked  her  whether  she  had  any  prospect  of  a  "part," 
she  answered,  languidly,  "No, "-as  if  she  had  lost  her 
interest  and  her  ambition.    He  had  learned- from  Miss 
Arden— that  she  was  eking  out  her  small  salary  by  pos- 
ing during  the  day,  in  costume,  for  magazine  illus- 
trators.    He  had  learned  also  that  she  and  Don  had 
made  a  morning  excursion  together  to  the  Bronx.    And 
when  he  tried  to  rouse  her  from  the  indifferent  silence 
which  she  maintained  with  him,  he  found  that  she 
responded  most  readily  to  talk  of  Don. 
"You  used  to  know  him,  in  Canada,  did  n't  you?" 
"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  've  known  him  since  the  first 
ilay  he  came  to  school— a  little  fellow  in  black-velvet 
knickerbockers— and  a  Scotch  cap.     When  my  sister 
introduced  him  to  me,  he  said  'How  do  you  do?'  with 
a  little  old-fashioned  bow  that  impressed  me  so  much 
I  've  never  forgotten  it.    I  could  n't  open  my  mouth  to 
him  after  that." 

When  Pittsey  spoke  of  the  pleasure  which  Don 
seemed  to  find  in  his  "suping,"  she  replied :  "He  ought 
to  make  an  actor.  I  rememb<ir  at  school  once,  in  the 
winter,  he  pretended  he  was  dead  and  the  boys 
buried  him  in  a  snow  bank.  They  almost  smothered 
him.  And  how  I  cried  when  I  saw  them  doing  it !  .  .  . 
He  was  sent  home  for  having  snow  down  his  neck  and 
up  his  sleeves  and  in  his  ears. ' ' 
She  relapsed  into  a  sort  of  staring  meditation.    He 


264 


DON-A-DREAMS 


did  not  break  in  upon  it,  a  little  ashamed  of  having 
gone  about  to  spy  on  her  secret. 


On  the  forenoon  of  the  following  Sunday-a  fresh 
September  morning  that  came  cool  at  the  end  of  a  hot 
week-Don  and  she  rode  to  Central  Park  together  on 
top  of  a  Fifth  Avenue  stage.    The  street  was  busy  4ith 
ita     church  parade,"  with  its  holiday  traffic,  with  its 
throngs  of  sightseers  and  visitors  to  town;  the  bus  was 
as  crowded  as  an  excursion  boat;  and  the  wind  that 
blew  down  the  clean  pavement-newly  washed  with 
ram-floated  the  lashes  of  the  cabbies'  whips,  fluttered 
laces  and  feathers  and  the  extravagant  veils  of  "Fall 
millinery,"  tossed  black  coat-tails,  caught  at  top  hats 
and  moulded  over  feminine  small  knees  the  flowing 
draperies  of  clinging  skirts.    Under  the  glinting  sun- 
light, It  gave  movement  and  animation  to  the  solemnity 
of  Sunday  finery  and  curiosity's  .slow  stare.  It  sparkUd 
like  a  breeze  on  water.    It  rocked  the  church  bells  in  a 
continuous  chime. 

She  leaned  back  against  the  back  of  their  seat,  look- 
ing down  on  the  bravery  of  fashion  inscrutably,  her 
face  made  more  beautiful  by  the  softening  blur  of  her 
brown  veil.  Don  clung  to  his  perch,  bending  forward, 
m  all  ungraceful  angles,  his  head  continually  turning 
and  clutching  at  his  hat.  The  hollow  rumble  of  the  bus 
axles,  jolting  in  their  hubs,  thrilled  him  with  the  return 


THE  IDEALIST  265 

of  a  childish  excitement;  for  it  was  the  sound  that  the 
circus  wagons  had  made,  passing  in  a  street  parade 
which  he  had  seen  when  he  had  been  no  taller  than  the 
glittering  spokes  of  the  gilded  wagon  wheels.  And 
although  he  did  not  recall  any  conscious  memoiy  of 
that  gala  day,  the  magic  of  the  sound  made  the  worlS 
poetical  again,  made  every  woman's  face  beautiful  to 
him,  eveo'  couple  in  a  hansom  cab  a  pair  of  smiling 
lovers,  every  glimpse  of  the  lives  around  him  the  entic- 
ing illustration  of  a  story-book  of  romances  of  which 
the  pages  were  being  turned  so  rapidly  that  he  could 
not  read. 

"This  is  the  way  /  'd  like  to  go  through  life,"  he 
cried.  ' '  Would  n  't  you  ?  "  And  when  she  did  not  seem 
to  understand,  he  explained,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand : 
"Up  above  it  all,  where  nobody  notices  you-looking 
down  at  it  as  you  go  by." 

She  nodded,  content  to  humour  him  in  whatever  he 
said. 

"I  would  n't  like  to  climb  down  into  it-even  into 
one  of  those  carriages."  A  liveried  coachman  and  foot- 
man, like  sentinels  on  their  box,  drove  past  with  a  bored 
couple  in  an  open  landau.  "Imagine  living  under 
guard,  like  that!"  he  laughed.  A  butler  stood  at  atten- 
tion beside  a  door  which  he  had  opened  for  an  old  lady 
whom  a  footman  was  escorting  solemnly  down  the  steps. 
"In  a  brownstone  prison  like  that!"  An  automobile 
came  slowly  toward  them,  quivering  impatiently  with 
the  pulse  of  its  checked  engine,  crawling  among  the 
cabs  and  carriages,  a  stout  man  beside  the  chauffeur 
shaking  corpulently  with  the  vibration  of  the  machine 


266 


DON-A-DBBAMS 


"Though  I  Bhoald  rather  like  tkatl"  The  man  looked 
up  at  the  roof  seats  of  the  stage,  as  if  in  a  habit  of  obser- 
vation which  nothing  escaped;  and  for  the  appreciable 
mom  at  of  passing,  Don  returned  a  stare  that  seemeu 
sudJenlv  to  focus  on  him,  and  stay  set,  as  if  waiting  for 
a  nod  '  .  t'  cognition. 

Ti>i.  machine  shot  forward  into  an  opening  between 
the  70  streams  of  carriages;  the  man,  still  staring,  dis- 
appeared with  a  backward  jerk  of  the  head  that  brouglit 
his  hand  up  to  the  brim  of  his  hat.  Don  said:  "lie 
thought  he  knew  me!"  But  as  soon  as  he  had  said  it, 
he  saw  that  it  had  been  she  at  whom  the  stare  had  been 
directed;  and  he  saw,  too,  that  the  recognition 
had  not  been  welcome.  He  sci-utinized  the  mem- 
ory of  the  man's  face— a  clean-shaven  plump 
face  with  protruding  eyeballs  that  were  round 
under  skinny  eyelids,  like  a  bird's.  He  wondered 
to  what  scenes  of  her  unknown  past  this  unexpected 
apparition  belonged. 

She  did  not  speak.  He  felt  that  she  was  separated 
from  him  by  her  thoughts,  and  he  amused  himself  with 
the  faces  he  saw  and  the  houses  he  passed,— wilfully 
fixing  his  attention,  with  a  microscopic  intensity,  on  the 
intricate  design  of  a  lace  curtain  in  a  window,  on  the 
twisted  scroll-work  of  an  iron  gate,  on  a  child  in  a  blue 
reefer  and  brown  leather  gaiters,  on  a  polieeaian  with 
a  swollen  nose  that  shone  in  the  sunlight— picking  out 
details  as  if  with  a  search-light  and  seeing  them  so 
brilliantly  that  it  seemed  he  had  never  seen  such  things 
before.  This  game  carried  him  to  the  end  of  their  ride : 
and  when  they  had  climbed  down  from  tha  driver's  box, 


THE  IDEALIST 


an 


over  the  rim  and  hub  of  the  wheel,  he  stood  beside  her 
on  the  curbstone,  stiff,  and  with  a  stranKO  sensation  of 
having  lost  his  outlook  and  reduced  his  height.  He 
looked  down  at  his  legs.  "They  feel  so  short, ' '  he  said. 
"I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  cut  off  at  the  knees." 

When  he  returned  his  thoughts  to  her,  a  little  ashamed 
of  his  whimsicality,  he  found  her  drawn  back  from  the 
approach  of    n  automobile  in  which  he  recognized  the 
man  who  had  stared  at  her.    The  chauffeur  stopped  the 
machine  beside  them.    The  man  raised  his  hat,  smiling 
familiarly.    "Jump  in  and  have  a  ride." 
She  replied,  in  her  coldest  tones:  "No,  thank  you." 
"What  are  you  doing  now!" 
"Mr.  Gregg,"  she  said,  "this  is  Mr.  Polk." 
Polk  merely  nodded.    "Yes.    How  d' you  do?"    He 
passed  his  eyes  over  Don— from  the  faded  band  of  his 
hat  to  the  worn  hem  of  his  trouser  legs— with  the  same 
absent-minded  observation  which  Don  had  noticed  in 
him  before.    He  said:  "Been  in  to  see  Jimmy  lately  I 
He  's  making  up  a  couple  of  road  companies.    How  've 
you  been,  ehf    You  're  looking  tip-top." 

"Mr.  Gregg  is  from  Canada,  too,"  she  said,  turning 
to  Don  with  the  politest  smile. 
"On  the  stage?" 

"Yes.  It  was  such  a  beautiful  morning  we  could  n't 
resist  the  top  seat  on  it." 

Polk  blinked  rapidly.  "OhT  Yes.  Well-  Go  ahead, 
Jack.    See  you  later." 

The  automobile  coughed,  exploded  and  kicked  for- 
ward with  a  jerk.  Polk  waved  his  hand  indifferently— 
and  was  gone  again. 


268 


D0N-A-DBEAM8 


Don  looked  after  him,  bewildered  by  thin  unexpcctfd 
arrival,  this  absurd  convenation  and  this  abrupt  depar- 
ture.   "Why!.    .    He  must  have  followed  us!" 

"This  is  our  gate,  is  n't  itf"  She  stepped  down  into 
the  roadway.  "Is  the  Museum  open  on  Sunday  morn- 
ingsf" 

He  followed  her.  "Who  is  he  I" 

"Peter  Polk." 

Don  had  seen  the  name  on  the  bill  boards.  "The  play- 
writer?" 

"If  you  wish  to  call  them  plays." 

"You  've-" 

She  interrupted:  "I  would  sooner  talk  of  something 
pleasant— if  you  don't  mind."  As  they  turned  into  a 
by-path,  she  added  apologetically:  "I  don't  want  tlie 
thought  of  him  to  spoil  our  morning."  She  raised  her 
veil,  tying  it  around  the  crown  of  her  hat,  took  oil  her 
gloves,  tucked  them  into  her  belt  and  opened  her  para- 
sol over  herself  and  Don  as  if  deliberately  conferring  on 
him  the  intimacy  of  smiles  and  friendship  which  she 
had  refused  to  Polk.  "Is  n't  this  jolly!" 

She  was  strikingly  dressed  in  shades  of  brown— even 
to  her  parasol,  her  veil  and  her  russet  shoes— and  every 
passer-by  paid  her  the  tribute  of  an  admiring  stare.  She 
appeared  so  unconscious  of  this  that  Don  was  free  to 
enjoy  it  for  her,  to  be  flattered  for  her,  and  to  enjoy 
also  the  feeling  it  gave  him  of  passing,  distinguished 
but  indifferent,  above  the  gaze  of  the  world.  With  the 
graceful  carriage  of  a  stage  beauty,  she  walked  untir- 
ingly, through  the  shady  windings  of  the  paths,  under 
tall  elms,  among  grey  beeches  of  which  the  leaves  were 


THE  IDEALIST 


269 


yellowing,  between  the  reddening  hedges  of  underbnuh 
from  which  the  Bquirrelg  peeped.  She  wai  amiued  by 
his  knowledge  of  the  paths  to  be  talien.  She  admired 
every  little  view  of  wood  and  water  which  he  pointed 
eut.  She  gave  herself  up  to  the  simple  pleasures  of  the 
moment  with  a  charming  unreserve  that  was  like  a  con- 
tinual compliment  to  him. 

He  had  never  seen  her  so  light-hearted  before,  and 
never  go  uncritically  friendly  in  her  acceptance  of  his 
opmions  and  his  points  of  view.     Although  she  said 
nothing  of  that  part  of  her  life  to  which  Polk  belonged, 
she  recalled   almost   wistfully   her  past   in    Coulton,' 
including  Don  in  her  memories  and  astonishing  him 
again  by  the  vividness  of  her  recollection  of  his  small 
doings.    She  had  been  in  that  photograph  of  the  Sun- 
day school  picnic  in  which  he  had  been  posed  among  so 
many  little  girls  that  "Miss  Margaret"  had  been  jeal- 
ous of  them;  she  remembered,  from  the  teasing  he  had 
suffered  in  school,  how  he  had  given  that  picture  to  a 
girl  who  had  destroyed  it;  and  she  confessed  that  she 
had  hated  "the  little  wretch."    When  he  was  somewhat 
blushingly  surprised  that  she  had  been  so  interested  in 
him,  even  so  long  ago,  she  said :  "Oh,  Edith  used  to  come 
home  and  talk  at  the  table  about  the  queer  little  boy  she 
was  teaching.    I  knew  all  about  you  long  before  I  ever 
met  you.    We  used  to  wonder  what  you  would  be  when 
you  grew  up." 
"I'm  afraid.    .    .     I  'm  rather  a  disappointment. " 
"You  are— in  some  ways,"  she  replied  lightly.  "In 
other  ways  you  're  not." 
"What  ways?" 
"Oh,  now,"  she  laughed,  "that  would  be  telling." 


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^=  ;716)   288  -  5989  -  Fo« 


270 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


He  joined  in  her  amusement.  "I  know,"  he  said, 
"I  'm  an  awful  ass.  I  've  tried  to  change— really,  I 
have— but  I  can't  do  it.  I  wake  up  next  morning  and 
find  myself  back  where  I  began.  Your  sister— my 
fathef— Bert  Pittsey— everyone  has  tried  to  help  me, 
but  they  can't.  I  '11  get  into  trouble,  some  day,  I 
know." 
"We  all  do  that." 

"Yes,  but  you  try  to  avoid  it.    I  seem  to  walk  right 
into  it  with  my  eyes  shut." 
"Never  mind.    Don't  let  us  worry  about  it." 
"  I  don 't ! "  he  said.    ' '  That  's  the  trouble ! ' ' 
"  Well, "  she  sighed,  "some  days  I  think  you  're  right. 
You  are  on  a  morning  like  this,  anyway !" 

She  even  accepted  his  invitation  to  have  luncheon  at 
the  "Terrace,"  and  protected  him  from  extravagance 
by  giving  a  ridiculous  order  of  oysters  and  ice-cream- 
making  a  joke  of  it,  enjoying  with  him  the  amazement 
of  the  waiter,  ignoring  the  curiosity  of  the  people  about 
her  and  devoting  her  eyes  to  Don  as  if  they  two  were 
alone  in  a  solitary  holiday  of  sunshine  and  autumn 
trees. 

"Now  what  shall  we  do?"  he  asked,  while  the  waiter 
was  gone  for  his  change. 

"Get  a  package  of  cigarettes,"  she  whispered,  as  if 
proposing  a  forbidden  wickedness,  "and  we  '11  go  where 
you  can  have  a  quiet  smoke." 

He  laughed.  "I  know  the  very  place!- as  good  as  a 
hay-loft!" 

It  was  around  an  arm  of  the  lake,  at  the  foot  of  an 
unfrequented  path  that  led  to  the  water's  edge  and 


271 


THE  IDEALIST 
She  turned  toward  him,  sideways  in  the  scat    her 

SrrdThTrdr:  •: ''-'  --^^  --  p-  '•-"' 

reptd -l";"  X'iT'"'"'  P'^*^  "^  his  cigarette  and 
ep  ed:  I  don'  beheve  I  can.  It  was  all  mixed  up 
I  kh  I  was  wasting  my  time  there.    I  wanted  to  be  at 

fii«P,l     "Ti,„  ,   "™"«^s—       He  stopped,  con- 

n.is'„dersoot  I     «e:;  7made""  't  T'^f''  "^^     ' 
It  I,-    <<T    ,      ""Pss.    1  made  a  mistake." 

At  ills     I  thought  someone  "-her  eves  widens,]  „„ 

™,  unwinking,  with  the  almost  pa  nf  u    el  ™  "of 

::E:r  "*" '"  ^^^'^  *^^  ^""^°^  ^^  ^-^  ^-" 

i  Jf  ITn'^'f^  '°  "  f '°*  embarrassment  that  was,  in 

tef,  a  confession  of  the  truth.    He  was  thinking  of 

parting  on  the  steps  of  the  Kimball  porch,  of  his 

^  despair,  and  of  Margaret  sobbing  in  th;  dar^! 

"No.    .    .     I  had  failed  on  my  entrance  exams." 


272 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


H' 


"I  remember.  :  .  Yes.  That  was  the  spring  that 
Miss-  What  was  her  name?-  I  remember  seeing  you 
often,  on  Park  street  with  her. "  ' 

"Miss  Richardson!"' 

She  did  not  appear  to  notice  his  surprise.  She  seemed 
indiiferently  interested  in  the  toe  of  her  shoe,  which 
she  was  prodding  with  the  point  of  her  parasol.  ' '  What 
became  of  herf" 

"She  's  in  Germany-studying  music.  Did  you 
know  her?"  ' 

"No.  I  knew  the  family  she  w.i  stopping  with- 
next  door  to  your  aunt's.  .  .  Is  she  going  to  be 
abroad  long?" 

"I-I  don't  know.  I  suppose  so.  If  they  can  stay 
I  think  they  've  been  rather  unfortunate-about 
money. 

She  said  gently:  "She  seemed  such  a  sweet  girl  " 
She  raised  to  him  again  that  penetrating  and  wafh- 
ful  scrutiny.    He  was  unaware  of  it,  gazing  out  at  the 
water.     Her  tone,  as  if  speaking  only  of  the  past- 
She  was  such  a  sweet  girl  "-had  recalled  to  him  all   I 
the  dear  tremors  of  those  days  that  seemed  so  far  away 
that  were  so  hopelessly  ended.    In  a  flash  of  thought 
he  saw  himself,  now,  drifting  in  a  life  that  promised 
him  no  future,  a  "super,"  earning  75  cents  a  night 
without  any  prospect  of  advancement  and  resigned  to 
his  failure  in  this  city  that  had  no  work  for  him     The 
interval  that  had  passed  since  he  had  left  her,  had  not 
brought  them  nearer  together;  it  had  separated  them 
by  every  unsuccessful  effort  that  he  had  made  to  earn 
the  right  to  love  her.     He  saw  her  as  the  impossible 
prize  of  a  contest  in  which  he  had  been  a  loser.    He  saw 


THE  IDEALIST  273 

boy  who  had  been  disappointed  in  love,  who  had  thrown 

lie  was  startled  by  the  touch  of  her  hand  on  his  arm 
-the  hand  m  which  she  held  her  gloves  !?«  T  T. 
t  at  she  was  givin,  the.n  to  hi^tnThe  took  them 

bse.  -„,.nded.y.  ..p„t  „e,„  in  y;ur  pocket  t  me" 
sue  said.       I   ,n  afraid  I  '11  lose  them  " 

He  wondered  why  she  was  blushing. 

"Piyi       A"u  when  he  assured  her  that  he  hnH 
been,  sh»  added:  "That   's  send      t       ■      ] 

:S  tt^T-r^""  ''"''^-  ^'-y '" ""  --  out  rSht, 

''I  hope  so,"  he  replied,  puzzled. 


274 


DON-A-DREAMS 


XI 


He  did  not  try  to  understand  what  it  was  that  lay  glim- 
mering at  the  bottom  of  that  deep  look  of  hers.  Her 
talk  of  Coulton  and  of  "Miss  Richardson"  had  put 
before  him  a  whole  picture  of  his  life,  from  the  days 
when  he  had  played  with  little  "Miss  Margaret"  in  the 
broken  summer-house,  down  to  the  last  written  words 
which  he  had  received  from  her  in  Leipzig ;  and  he  went 
back  over  it  all,  incident  by  incident,  and  chapter  by 
chapter,  as  if  it  were  a  printed  story  of  which  he  had 
yet  to  read  the  end.  Was  it  possible  that,  so  far  as  she 
was  concerned,  it  was  already  ended?  Was  she  gone 
out  of  his  life  forever  ?  Was  his  future  to  be  a  disjoined 
series  of  new  incidents  to  which  she  would  be  a 
stranger? 

He  revolted  against  the  thought  as  if  against  a 
change  in  his  own  identity.  Surely  lov<>  eoii'd  not  be 
such  an  impotent  t-agedy.  Surely  he  was  not  wrecked 
here  in  a  life  that  had  settled  down  to  mere  aimless 
regret.  Surely  it  was  a  very  law  of  existence  that  his 
future  should  be  a  development  of  his  past.  He  said 
to  himself  that  it  must  be  so,  that  it  should  be  so,  that 
he  would  maKe  it  so.  With  a  determined  effort  he 
threw  off  the  depression  that  had  fastened  on  him ;  and 
by  a  trick  of  imagination  he  made  himself  feel  a  confi- 
dent expectation  that  Margaret  would  come  back  to  him 
atd  that  his  life  would  continue  to  fulfil  the  promise 
with  which  it  had  begun. 
When  he  returned  to  his  rooms,  both  the  Pittseys  were 


THE  IDEALIST  27^ 

threatened  to  escape  hi      Tl  1'  '"''*  "'"♦  '"'^' 

watchease,  to  find^hat  her  f „  '  """"',  *""  """"^  "^  "'■' 

.U..OU.  ,Vo„.„"yr  ••:If^d"^:^Jr;^^^:; 

were  try.ng  to  fade  away  from  him  -An  1  1     *    '        ' 

the  day,  so  tfat  llt^T'"',  "  ''"'''  '^'^y  """r  «f 

when  h^  gav    llse,"  fn  to  th'r"^  '"  '""'  ^'"•'^«-'' 
her  at  night  '^   °  *'"'  '"^*  '^'"Py  ">»«ght.  of 

not  be^nShy  of  h;;"tr;  T"""  ^^"''-''•'  ^''-"^ 

happy  completion  of  the  deSrr,"''  •"""  '°  "^ 
oast     nc  tw  u  ,      aestiny  foreshadowed  by  their 

past.    Of  that  he  made  himself  feel  sure     For  L 
not  merely  an  unconscious  idealist,  now    he  was  t 

^:^":;?:-t:.s--^--onthe 

Mser  smile-that  she  h.r.       .         "'*  ""  almost 
^  and  that  she  had   ntn'    /to^rhirr''^""^  '"  ''^"■' 

tttr  rvr  i;"-  -  ^-t'rror  7f\2 

I     "'  ""^  '""'  ''"''■'''  '-•^  P-t  with  her;  that  she  hid 


and    that    sh 


I  've  beci 
What  havi 


276  DON-A-DREAMS 

watched    him    always    with    interest 
believed  in  him  still. 

"Well,  what  have  you  been  doing  J"  she  asked 
soon  a«  ihey  were  paired  off  in  their  promenade.       ' 

"I  've  been  making  plans." 

' '  Have  you  ?    What  sort  ? ' ' 

-Why-I  feel  that  I  've  been  drifting, 
trying  to  take  a  course  again,  and  sail  it.' 

She  said,  feelingly:  "Oh,  I  'm  so  glad! 
you  decided  to  do?" 

She  .surprised  him  by  the  warmth  of  her  curiosity 
questionmg  him  with  an  eagerness  that  had  an  air  ol 
triumph,  as  if  she  had  tried  to  awaken  his  ambition  ami 
was  flattered  by  her  success.  He  guessed  that  she  too 
had  been  planning  for  him;  and  he  said:  "I  have  n't 
found  out.    Tell  me-can't  you  suggest  something?" 

Oh,  a  thousand  things!"  She  laughed  "For 
instance,  here  you  are,  behind  the  scenes,  watching  the 
machinery  of  a  play-with  a  college  education  and  lots 
of  imagination,  I  know.  Why  don't  you  begin  to  write 
plays?" 

"Like  Peter  Polk?"  he  joked. 

She  winced.    ' '  Plea.se— Please— ' ' 

"I  beg  your  pardon.    .    .    Do  you  really  mean  it?" 

Jlost  certainly.    Why  not?    You  eould  act,  if  you 

would  let  yourself-but  if  you  don't  want  to  come  out 

and  'read'  lines  yourself,  you  certainly  can't  object  to 

writing  them  for  others.    And  I  'm  sure  you  could  do 

He  trussed  himself  up  with  his  cane,  holding  it  across 
his  back  m  the  crooks  of  his  elbows,  and  frowning  out 


THE  IDEALIST  277 

at  the  parade  of  supen,  in  the  calcium  lisht.  "I  tried  to 
vT.e-„ewspaper  stuff-for  Bert  Pittsey.  S  J 
could  n't  do  it  at  all." 

''Newspaper  stuff!"  she  said  contemptuously.  "No! 
But  surely  you  could  write  the  dialogue  of  a  p^v 
L.»k  at  that  Polk.  He  ean  hardly  write  a'readable  let r' 
B  t  he  kno„.s  how  people  talk,  and  he  knows  how  to 
put  them  on  the  stage."  ""«v  lo 

He  looked  around  at  her  in  sudden  surprise     "Do 
r  '"''"''    ^  ''''^'  "I  •'«"^-«  I  -uld !    1  used  to  mak 
hem  up-plays-^or  figures  cut  out  of  pictures-pie: 
tures  from  the  old  'Graphic '-long  ago     Would  n't 
It  be  fun !-if  I  could!"  "  ' 

She  touched  him  on  the  arm,  to  start  hin  out  for 
e.r  turn  m  the  procession.  "Of  course  you  Id 
It  s  the  very  thing  you  could  do.  It  's  what  Edith  said 
^^  she  heard  you  we..  ,oing  to  study  law-that  you 
had  too  much  Pagination  for  law  or  business  or  any" 
thmg  else  unless  you  took  to  poetry.  And  no  one  can 
make  a  hvmg  out  of  poet^,  whereas  Polk  ha.  mide 
lousands  of  dollars  out  of  his  'Tommy  TenderZt' 

n  hn  b  ■  ■  i  -"^^^  °*  '*  ""<=«•  "'y^^'^'  and  got  a  lot 
of  books  on  the  technique  .f  the  Drama  and  all  that 
-I   11  let  you  have  them,  if  you  wish.-  But  I  had  no 

h.s  hvmg  by  writing  plays!     It  would  be  a  game  of 
It  ,^ould  be  played  m  this  glittering  world  of  the 


278 


D0N-A-DREAM8 


theater,  away  from  office  drudgery  and  the  slavery  of 
business,  above  all  the  deceits  and  conventions  and  suf. 
ferinpi  and  vices  of  real  life,  lookinp  down  on  the  work, 
a-day  world— as  he  had  looked  down  from  the  top  of 
the  Fifth  Avenue  stage— with  Margaret  beside  him,  in 
an  endless  happiness.  He  felt  that  a  door  which  he  hiij 
been  groping  for  in  darkness  hnd  suddenly  been  opened 
to  him.  It  was  work— a  futuix— everything ! 
"It— it  would  be  great!"  he  said.  "Would  n't  it?" 
"It  would  be  the  very  thing  for  yott.  I  wonder  you 
did  n't  think  of  it  yourself." 

He  smiled  np  at  the  calcium  light,  as  if  it  were  tlu' 
wholesome  sunshine  on  his  face.  "I  could  n't  see  any 
future  for  me  here— and  still  I  liked  it  so  much.  I 
hated  to  leave  it.    I  did  n't  know  what  to  do." 

The  cry  from  the  jeweler's  counter  broke  in  on  them. 
They  exchanged  parting  smiles  as  they  were  separated 
by  the  crowd— the  smile  of  congratulation  and  thi> 
smile  of  ambition ;  for  Don,  at  last,  had  found  an  object 
and  a  task  in  life. 

He  walked  to  her  door,  that  night,  to  borrow  her  few 
books ;  and  he  went  to  the  Astor  Library,  next  morning, 
to  look  over  the  list  of  volumes  on  the ' '  Drama. ' '  He  was 
not  discouraged  when  he  found  hundreds  of  titles  under 
that  head ;  the  more  guides,  he  thought,  the  surer  travel- 
ing. He  confided  to  Walter  Pittsey  that  he  had  serious 
thoughts  of  trying  to  write  a  play,  and  Pittsey  nodded: 
"Why  not?"  He  had  been  through  the  play  writing 
period  himself,  and  was  tolerant. 

"There  's  a  pile  of  money  in  it,"  Bert  Pittsey  said, 
"and  you  're  nearer  it  in  the  theater  than  the  rest  of  us 
outside. ' ' 


THE  IDEALIST 


279 


"I  don't  care  so   much  about  the   money,"   Don 
replied.  "It  's  the— the  fun  of  it." 

"Oh  go  on,"  Bert  replied.  "Take  the  m.noy.  You 
may  need  it  some  day. ' ' 

"All  right,"  Don  laughed.  "Since  you  arc  so  Dress- 
ing." 

He  was  in  high  spirits.  He  took  optimistically  the 
news  from  his  mother  that  Frankie's  departure  for  col- 
lege had  left  the  house  very  empty,  and  that  Conroy 
was  giving  Uncle  John  s  much  trouble  that  the  "poor 
man"  looked  ten  years  older.  It  would  all  come  out 
right.  Everything  wouk  me  out  right.  He  tried  a 
cheer  Miss  Morris  with  tha  nope  when  she  caught  the 
rib-point  of  her  umbrella  in  the  gauze  netting  of  the 
jeweler's  window  and  was  called  a  "fool"  by  the  stag 3 
manager.  "  I  am  a  fool, ' '  she  said  bitterly, ' '  for  having 
brought  myself  down  to  the  level  of  such  beasts." 

"Never  mind,"  he  joked.  "When  we  get  that  play 
written,  you  'II  have  the  'lead'  to  do,  and  you  '11  help 
me  abuse  the  stage  manager. ' ' 
"You  '11  have  forgotten  me  by  that  time." 

Forgotten  you !    Oh  say,  what  do  you  think  I  am  I " 
They  were  sitting  at  their  table  under  their  stage  tree. 
She  looked  around  her  scornfully  at  her  neighbors.    "I 
think  you  're  the  only  person  here  I  'd— I  'd  care  to  be 
ix-membered  by." 
"That  's  pleasant!" 
She  turned  her  eyes  to  him.  "It  'si-  ue." 
It  struck  him  that  she  had  changed  since  their  firsl 
meeting,  that  she  had  come  to  the  surface,  that  she  was 
no  longer  hidden  behind  the  mask  of  her  beauty;  for 


280 


D0N-A-DREAM8 


the  expreminn  of  face  with  which  she  Raid  "It  'g  true  I" 
was  alive  with  a  sort  of  proud  emotion  that  confessed 
friendship  and  invited  its  return. 

lie  said,  humbly:  "It  's— It  's  miifhty  good  of  yon 
to  say  so.    You  've  been  kindness  itself  to  me  here." 

She  put  her  elbows  on  the  table  and  leaned  forward 
toward  him  in  her  chair.  "Because  I  wanted  you  to 
like  me,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "Do  you?.  .  . 
Because,"  she  went  on  fleiccly,  "I  've  hated  myself  so 
—in  this  life  here— that  I  thought  you  would  despise 
me.  And  I— I  've  done  despicable  things.  Polk— he 
was  in  one  r.f  them- before  I  learned  what  such  men 
are.  You  don't  know.  You  can't— because  you  're— 
you  're  different." 
He  tried  to  speak,  with  a  confused  smile. 
"No,"  she  said,  with  the  same  desperate  rapidity  of 
utterance,  "don't  say  that.  Don't  say  anything.  I'm 
—they  've—  That  brute  has  upset  me.  I  should  n't  b" 
saying  such  things.  I  can't  help  it.  I— I  have  to  speak 
or  I  shall  be  crying.  Don 't  look  at  me. "  He  Hxed  his 
eyes  on  the  floor,  bewildered.  "I  hated  everyone.  I 
looked  at  them  and  hated  them.  It  's  your  fault  that—  " 
She  choked.  "You  must  n't  judge  me.  You  came  to 
me  from  Coulton,  and  that  afternoon  at  Port  George—  • 
from  the  life  I  'd  run  away  from— and  you  spoke  to 
me  from  it.  It  was  that.  That  'a  why  I  wanted  you  to 
go  away,  to  go  home— and  you  would  n't.  And  I 
was  n't  strong  enough— myself— I  wanted  to  sec  you 
and  talk  to  you.  You  must  n't  judge  me.  You  can't 
—you  can't  understand.  It  'a—" 
The  cue  came:  "Lady  Whortley,  the  tenantry  are 


THK  IDEALIST  281 

waitinRonthelawn."    When  Don  looked  up,  she  was 
lost  in  the  exit  of  the  supers. 

lie  followed  her,  amazc«l  by  this  outburst,  which  he 
oould  not  understand.  He  wished  to  assure  her  that 
of  course  he  liked  her ;  that  he  had  always  had  the  great- 
(St  admiration  and  respect  for  her;  that,  if  he  had  not 
:  liown  It,  It  was  besauso  he  had  been  a  Jittic  in  awe  ..f 
her.  As  for  her  aceiwations  airainst  herself,  they  were 
foolish  (he  would  tell  her).  She  must  not  let  herself 
thmk  such  thiuffs.  She  was  everything  that  was  hlRh- 
minded,  he  knew.  It  wrs  only  her  own  over-sensitive- 
nes.s  that  accused  her  of  imaginary  defects. 

He  tried  to  meet  her  in  the  winjjs,  but  she  avoided 
him  by  not  coming  from  the  women's  dressing-room 
uhtil  the  instant  that  she  was  to  go  on  the  stage;  ac  ' 
the  play  kept  them  separated  there.     He  decided 
meet  her  at  the  stage  entrance  and  escort  her  to  ner 
boardmg-house;  but  when  the  last  curtain  had  fallen 
nnd  he  hurried  to  the  supers'  dressing-room  to  get  into 
his  street  clothes,  he  found  that  Walter  Pittsey  and  Mr 
Kidder  were  waiting  to  speak  to  him.    '"I  'm  going  to 
Roston,"  Pittsey  explained,  "to  open  an  agency  for  Mr 
Kidder.    He  wants  you  to  take  charge  here,  in  my  place. 
What  do  you  say?" 

"Why— why,  yes,  ol'  course,"  Don  stammered,  as  if 
reluctantly.    "If  Mr.  Kidder  wants  me  to-" 

Kidder,  instead  of  being  offended— as  Pittsey 
seemed  to  fear  he  might  he-put  in,  rather  apologeti- 
cally: "I  'm  going  to  have  something  better  for  you 
pretty  soon.  You  look  after  these  boys,  now.  See  that 
they  take  care  of  their  costumes ;  that  's  the  main  thing 


282 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


Pittsey  '11  explain  all  that.  Come  and  see  me  to-morrow 
morning  and  I  '11  give  you  the  new  pay  roll.  Two  of 
the  boys  arc  quitting  to-night."  He  patted  Don  on  the 
shoulder,  flatteringly,  as  he  turned  away.  "I  got 
something  up  my  sleeve  for  you." 

Don  had  to  remain  with  Pittsey  until  the  last 
of  the  "boys"  had  departed  and  the  last  article 
of  their  wardrobe  had  been  hung  on  its  appointed  hook; 
and  then  Walter  accompanied  him  on  his  way  back  to 
their  rooms,  giving  Lim  instructions  in  his  duties  a.s 
time-keeper  and  "head  of  the  supers."  "It  's  ten  a 
week,  you  know,"  Pittsey  said,  "and  a  chance  to  get 
some  sort  of  little  'thiniing  part'  if  one  turns  up.  You 
do  the  square  thing  by  Kidder,  and  he  '11  shove  you." 
"Shall  I  have  the— the  same  place  on  the  stage,  with 
Miss  Morris?"  Don  asked. 

Pittsey  smiled  at  a  street  lamp.  "  Certainly— unless, 
as  I  said,  the  stage  manager  wants  some  one  to  do  a  lit- 
tle bit  and  asks  Kidder— or  puts  you  into  it,  himself. 
You  '11  not  have  anything  new  to  do,  immediately- 
except  in  the  dressing-rooms.  One  of  the  new  men  will 
take  my  place  in  the  ranks. " 

"Oh,  I  see,"  Don  said,  relieved.  He  added,  on  second 
thoughts:  "I'm  sorry  you  're  going.  I  '11  be  lost  with- 
out you." 

Pittsey  laughed.    "Oh,  you  '11  get  along." 
"I  don't  mean  that,"  Don  said.     "I  don't-care 
about  that.    You  've  been  so—  If  it  had  n't  been  for 
you—" 

"That  's  all  right,  old  man,"  Pittsey  put  in,  hastily. 

I    m  only  worried  about  the  apartment— about  my 

share  in  it.    I-"  He  turned  to  watch  a  passing  car, 


THE  IDEALIST  283 

with  a  pretended  interest,  touched  by  Don's  gratitude 
but  nervously  afraid  of  this  expression  of  it 

Don  said,  out  of  the  silence:  "I  wish  Miss  Morris 
•    .    .    was  n't  a  woman." 

"Wasn't  a—" 

"So  that  she  could  take  it.  You  and  she-you  'rt-  the 
best  fnends  I  've  had.    She  does  n't  seem  very  happy 

HfToVS  "'^h"  """^k"^  '"""•'^  ^*  '■""  with  af,uiS 
lift  of  the  eyebrow;  but  he  went  on,  innocently  "It  's 

t?S„  h  'Z  "  '"'•  '  "  ^'"^  «"yt'''°^  t°  "e  able 
to  help  her  the  way  you  did  me.  We  get  on  so 
well  together,  too.  .  .  Pu„„y  thing-to-n  Jht-she 
thought  I  did  n't  like  her."  '"  i"gnt    sne 

lie  spoke  as  if  he  were  thinking  aloud;  and  Pittsey 
as  If  ashamed  of  overhearing  him,  checked  him  with 
^Perhaps  Bert    '11  know  some  one-to  come  in  with 

As  they  turned  up  the  old  and  broken  brownstone 
steps  hat  mounted  from  the  street  to  the  front  door  of 
heir  lodgmgs,  Don  said:  "For  that  matter-now  that 
I  m  getting  ten  a  week-we  could  keep  the  place  for 
you  till  you  come  back."  And  Walter  was  still  remon- 
strating  against  this  folly,  when  they  entered  the  "din- 

ZrT^  """^  """^  confronted  by  Conroy,  soiled  and 
disheveled,  eating  at  the  table. 


XII 

frnJ!'f^'^'',r''''  *"""  '""»"•  *'"'*  ^"^  evident  at  once 
trom  the  sulky  and  defiant  way  in  which  he  received 


284 


DON-A-DREAMS 


their  surprised  greetings.  "Why,  what  happenedt" 
Don  cried  He  answered,  brutally:  "I  don't  know  that 
It  s  any  of  2,o„r  business."  He  continued  eating  in  a 
surly  indifference  to  them,  as  if  they  were  a  pair  of  in- 
^u'^-J^'^  '*°'"^  awkwardly,  staring  at  him,  until 
Walter  Pittsey,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulder,  turned 
into  the  other  room.  Don  heard  him  talking  in  low 
tones  to  his  brother,  who  was  already  in  bed  There 
were  only  three  beds-three  cots-so  narrow  that  it 
was  impossible  for  more  than  one  person  to  sleep  in 
any  one  of  them. 

"You  might  have  let  us  know  that  you  were  coming  " 
Don  said. 

"I  don't  have  to  report  my  movements  to  you  I  'm 
done  with  you.  You  mind  your  own  affairs  and  I  '11 
mind  mine." 

Don  sat  down,  sick  at  heart.  Conroy  finished  his  sup- 
per and  shoved  back  his  chair.  He  swayed  and 
stumbled  as  he  crossed  to  the  bedroom  door.  He  threw 
It  open  with  his  foot,  and  went  in  to  his  cot-the  cot 
m  which  Walter  Pittsey  had  been  sleeping.  He  sat 
dowii  on  the  side  of  it  and  began  to  take  off  his  shoes. 
Walter  came  out.  "Well,"  he  said,  as  he  shut  the 
door  behind  him,  "this  is  no  place  for  me  " 

"No,"  Don  replied,  "nor  for  me  either!  I  might  as 
well  get  out  now.  I  can't  live  her^not  with  this  sort 
of  thing." 

"Nonsense!     He    '11   be  nil   riirlit  ;«   +t,„  _ 
He  '11  .sleep  it  off.'-  ^  *''"  °""'°"'^' 

"No.  .  No.  .  .  He  thinks  I-  It  's  no  use. 
You  know  what  I  did.    I  did  it  because  I  had  to-but 


THE  IDEALIST 


285 

he  '11  never  forgive  it.    I  might  as  well  get  out  now 
It  ;U  be  a  dog's  life.    Where  are  you  going?" 

Don  t  be  absurd."  He  put  down  his  hat.  "I  'm 
not  going  any  place.  Lend  me  your  mattress,  and  I  '11 
sleep  on  the  floor."  ""  ^   u 

Don  shook  his  head. 

"But  if  he  needed  looking  after-before, "  Pittsey 
coaxed,  "he  'II  need  it  a  hundred  times  more  «««,     Z 

iZ  VT.T"  *"  P*^  '"''■     You  don't  intend -U, 
leave  it  all  to  Bert,  do  you  ? " 

"No,  but—" 

"Well,  then,  don't  be  foolish.  Lend  me  your  mat- 
tress and  a  blanket,  and  I  '11  sleep  here  "       ^  "    "" 

"It's  no  use,"  Don  said.  "I  can't  stay." 

However,  after  a  weakening  argument,  he  comprom- 
ised by  sleepmg  on  the  floor  himself,  giving  Walter  the 

'IZT  "'  '""^  "*-"''■•='  ''^'^y  had'carried  : 
rlJ  1  '"°^:""""-  "^  '"'"d  Conroy  snoring  in  a 
heavy  stupor  through  the  night;  and  in  the  morning 

im  fir  '  *"  "k?*  '"  •'""^'"'^  -"'ty  -  f'-ing 
ate  Llebrrr  "'  ""'"'  '^  "''  ""*  ''''  ^'""^^'^ 
Their  breakfast  was  a  constrained  and  unhappy  meal, 
n  spite  of  Bert  Pittsey's  attempt  to  make  a  ike  of 
waCt  >.'"rf"''*"  "^°"'  ^-'^  "-t  '-k  liL  a 
S^ri;  '''^  '^"«'^''  "-"•^  ''^  P^«-  °^  tho. 

ti:;^:i.:i?:^nn;:^"^^'"^^^^--°*^— - 

Bert  flushed  at  his  brotherly  dig.     Conroy  carried 
hnnself  as  if  Walter  had  been  justly  punished  f or  S 


2S6 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


impertinent  intrusion  on  the  apartment.  Don  refused 
to  join  in  any  attempts  to  achieve  a  more  companionable 
mood.    They  finished  the  meal  as  they  had  bc«un  it. 

Don  helped  Walter  to  pack  his  trunk  and  accom- 
panied  him  to  Kidder's  office;  and  when  they  had  said 
good-bye  at  the  railway  station,  Don  went  to  the  library 
and  sat  down  to  his  books  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  He  felt 
that  he  had  returned  to  solitude,  and  he  was  glad  of  it 
He  was  ready  now,  for  his  future,  his  salary  assured 
and  his  work  before  him. 

He  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  day  in  the  library 
lunching  at  a  ten-cent  restaurant  so  as  to  avoid  a  mid- 
day meeting  with  Conroy.  He  did  not  think  of  Mks 
Moms  until  he  met  her  on  the  stage,  that  night;  and 
then  she  was  so  smilingly  oblivious  to  what  had  passed 
between  them  on  the  previous  evening  that  he  was 
unable  to  refer  to  it.  They  talked  about  his  play-writ- 
mg,  about  his  new  responsibilities  in  the  dressing-room 
about  Conroy  s  return  and  about  Walter  Pittsey's 
departure;  and  he  looked  out  on  the  world  of  his  st^e 
work  and  his  petty  worries  from  the  charmed  circle  of 
in  it  ^'""^  ^'""''^  '''^'"'"^  ^""^  P™t«=ted 

When  he  received  a  letter  from  his  uncle,  asking  him 
to  take  charge  of  $30  a  month  for  Conroy's  mL  e 
nance  on  the  old  conditions,  he  talked  this'^letter  ov-er 
with  her;  and  they  agreed  that  it  would  be  better  to 
have  Conroy  mdependent  of  him.  "Get  them  to  send  it 
to  the  other  Pattsey,"  she  advised.  "He  '11  only  quarre 
with  you  more  than  ever. ' '  quarrei 

''That  's  so,"  he  said.    "Bert  has  his  confidence  still. 
And  he  may  know  how  to  handle  him." 


THE  IDEALIST 


287 

tanee  man  myself  '?     ^!       T^  '"■""•  ""  '^  ■"^i' 
pa.rLrC:.'^'°^'  '■^  '"  -  '^-P  --S  ont  to 

it  17LmX\VJtrh"'"'f'-  "^"* ' '' ''-  *"  «^ 

"Fix  it  a!  ••*  '^°"  *  *•"•"  sour  on  me  too  " 

i^  X  It  any  way  you  please, ' '  Don  sairf     ' '  r        .!  , 

anything  with  him,  and  if  we  don 't  tX  ..  "  *  '^'^ 

him,  we  'U  either  have  to  nJv  f  V-  *^  ™°"''y  f°' 

him  out  on  the  street ''     ^"^        ^""  """^'^^^  "''  *"«•" 

M  °M™  f'V"'"^  r*^  -P'--<J  ^he  situation ;  and 

.nust^^otTC^hf w^^T'  r""'"^-  ""' 
mother  worried     I  will    ^  "''""  ""*  ''^^«  his 

Perhaps  if  we  let  him  to  h  ''"'"^''  '"'■  "'^  «"PP'"-'- 
«"  4t.  Keep  h?ro'„  ^fZ^r''  -'"  r*'  ""' 
wrong,  write  me  ••         '  °*  ^'^""'^'e.    If  anythmg  goes 

^rom"sijt:st"r^^^^^^  ^^  -'-'»^  »>- 

-urned  eagerl^to  rhoIr'^mTei  :?,  '' 
to  write  plays    he  harl   K„  reading  of  how 

^IvesjandhfhauntSnuT';  '"  ''^'^  P'^-^^  tl"^">- 
hand  'volulL  of  <^1:  'ft  ^T  ""•  ''''  ^''"'''■ 
sionals,"  and  -arried  thp  I  '""'**"'^  ""'^  P'-°f««- 
'tudied  them  on  t^fbeistl"?;:-^'"'^^*^  -'^ 
under  the  falling  leaves  of  Celtral  Part''  T""  ?" 
dramas  which  he  nn„)A  "-'™i™i  Park.     The  on  y 

theaters  tU^^.Z^iZZZZ' T'^  t*  ^"^  ^- 
nesdays  and  Saturdays    fo'  Z  ^!^'' ^^y^  t^an  Wed- 

-wa.onthestaX^';-:rrrfir: 


288 


DON-A-DREAMS 


extravaganza  called  "The  Enchanted  Castle"  that  had 
a  matinee  on  Thursday;  and  this  gorgeous  spectacle 
appealed  to  him  like  a  fairy  tale. 

The  dramas  that  depicted  life  did  not  invite  him  to 
attempt  any  imitation  of  them,  but  he  felt  that  it  would 
be  a  pure  joy  to  plan  such  a  play  as  this  "Enchanted 
Castle";  and  he  amused  himself  by  picturing  a  ballet 
for  it— not  ih  the  "wizard's  cavern,"  but  in  the  great 
hall  of  an  ice  palace,  of  which  all  the  floors  were  shininsr 
ice,  transparently  blue;  and  the  walls  were  blocks  of 
snow,  like  a  white  marble,  sparkling  in  raised  designs 
of  frost;  and  from  the  arched  ceilings  hung  great 
chandeliers  that  were  pendant  icicles  supporting  a 
myriad  of  lights;  and  on  a  throne  that  looked  as  if  it 
had  been  carved  froi  •  a  frozen  waterfall,  sat  the  god- 
dess of  Winter,  in  ermine  and  white  velvets,  holdins; 
her  wand  of  silver  tipped  with  a  great  pearl,  and  look- 
ing down  on  her  Amazons  with  their  icy  breastplates 
and  their  frost-spangled  skirts.  He  was  returnins, 
unconsciously,  to  all  he  had  ever  imagined  of  Santa 
Claus's  palace  that  stood  on  the  top  of  a  mountainous 
iceberg  and  was  peopled  by  fairies  who  arrived  and 
departed  on  floating  '■louds.  He  imagined  Winter  as 
a  neglected  divinity  who  envied  the  praises  which  man- 
kind and  especially  the  poets,  gave  to  her  sisters  of  the 
Spring,  the  Summer  and  the  Autumn.  He  saw  the 
Prince,  her  devoted  lover,  in  a  drifted  forest  (that  was 
his  ravine  at  Coulton  on  a  larger  scale)  sitting  on  some 
broken  fir  branches  with  a  dog  crouched  in  the  snow 
beside  him— when  suddenly  the  dog  barked  and  he 
looked  up  to  see  that  the  side  of  the  hill  had  opened 


THE  IDEALIST  ggg 

just  where  there  had  stood  a  huge  rock  dripping  with 
.«■.  and  from  this  cave  a  band  of  nymphs  wshed  out 
and  surrounded  h.m  with  a  circle  of  spears-and  then 
Vmter  herself  came  into  the  sunlight  and  waved  them 
back  and  saul :  "  For  this  is  he ! " 
She  had  come  to  reward  him  for  his  devotion! 
He  gathered  up  his  books  from  the  reading  table 
returned  them  at  the  library  desk,  and  hurried  out  to 
the  street  to  be  alone  among  the  multitudes  of  the  city 
»'th  this  new  make-believe. 

She  led  him  into  her  underground  palace-whieh 
proved  to  bo  an  Aladdin's  cave  encrusted  with  precious 
stones  s.t  m  ice-its  floors  covered  with  the  skins  of 
polar  bears,  ite  walls  shining  with  theatrical  stalactites 
Ike  the  wizard's  cavern;  and  when  they  were  alone  in 
a  wonderful  secret  chamber  out  of  the  Arabian  Nights, 
hey  sat  down  to  a  Homeric  feast  of  nectar  and  ambro- 
sia.   She  told  him  how  she  had  watched  over  him  in  the 
woods,  patting  him  on  the  cheeks  with  snow  flakes  and 
caressing  him  with  the  winds.    She  had  longed  to  speai 
t '  him,  but-but  intercourse  with  mortals  was  forbid- 
den by  the  gods;  and  now,  having  sworn  her  attendant 
nymphs  to  secrecy,  she  was  daring  all  the  angers  of 
Olympus  by  making  herself  visible  to  him  and  receiv- 
ing him  here  in  this  enchanted  cave  which  she  had 
made  for  him  unknown  to  Jupiter. 

lie  walked  up  Broadway,  listening  to  her  complaints 
0  loneliness,  of  the  disregard  of  men  who  had  become 
atraid  of  her  since  they  began  to  herd  together  in  cities 
and  avoid  the  bracing  airs  and  healthful  exercises  of 
the  wmter;  and  he  tried  to  console  her  with  his  own 


290 


DON-A-DREAMS 


if 


fervent  admiration,  reminding  her  of  his  life-lom 
adoration  and  his  love  of  the  snow.  She  interrupte, 
him  with  a  melancholy  smile,  to  say:  "And  you-evn 
you-will  forget  me.  The  city  will  take  you.  Yoi 
will  build  a  home  and  sit  by  your  fireside  with  youi 
wife  and  children,  and  shudder  when  you  hear  me  caU 
ing  to  you  mournfully  outside  among  the  frozei 
drifts." 

"Here  you!  Look  where  yuh're  goin',  will  yuh?' 
A  policeman  thrust  him  back  from  "Dead  Man's 
Curve,"  as  a  cable  car  swung  around  it  with  a  frantic 
clang  of  its  gong.  "D'  yuh  want  to  go  home  'n  an 
amb 'lance!" 

He  picked  up  his  hat,  and  brushing  it  with  his  coat 
sleeve  as  he  went,  he  hurried  to  the  safety  of  the 
benches  in  the  center  of  the  square.    There  he  sat  down 
with  his  drama,  still  trembling  from  the  fright,  but  still 
smihng  excitedly.  He  saw  himself  pleading  with  her  to 
take  him  away  from  ihe  world  which  he  despised,  to 
keep  him  with  her  hidden.   He  saw  that  she  would  not 
be  able  to  resist  him.  She  would  carry  him-on  a  cloud 
-to  her  summer  palace  in  the  unexplored  North     A 
jealous  nymph  would  betray  her.  The  ballet  in  the  great 
hall  would  be  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  Jupiter,  with 
stage  thunder.  The  gods  would  sentence  her  to  lose  her 
immortality  and  her  throne;  she  would  return  with 
him  to  the  world,  where  they  would  live  together- 
through  the  last  act-in  a  little  cottage  in  the  woods. 
And  she-because  she  shared  with  him  the  common 
menace  of  death  and  was  linked  to  him  by  a  doom  that 
made  love  a  fearful  and  precarious  joy-she  would  be 


THE  IDEALIST  291 

more  happy,  now,  than  she  had  ever  been  in  t1.»      . 
(i'll  ennui  of  her  divinity  *''^  ^P'""' 

Homeric  mySjy  he  «aw  tth  "  """'"  """  "'^ 
ehorus-girl  nymnhs  L  T  T^  "  """'"-thy  in  his 
beautiful  thatTt  aillt  H  ''^''  "  ""  "^  "  '^ins  so 
Imstened  tn  hi  ""•'''*  *'"'"•''  *"  his  eyes.    He 

"■e  «r.t  ti.e.  that  it'had'^in'to  ^lin"'"^"'  ''""'  '"■ 

Do?' tread"  Vetr'  "  '^""^'»  '''^^'^^'-  "D- 
It  -B  mo  he"t  fault  MrT^'r-  ^ -"'**«"  y"- 
<lomg  just  wha   she  Hi^    ^  """■""'  '"'''  ''""'"^* 

you  know.  H  there  's  «nl  '.?"■"  ""^  ""'"  "^«S- 
than  enough  forher  Tantl  '  '*  "'"  ""*  "^  "">- 
set  to  New  York    T  'J  ff  ^°"  "'  ''""'  ««  «■" 

to  be  something.  ^^       "'''  ^""^  *''«'•«  "u^ht 

you  never  saw  stoh    ,^      ""'*''""  ''"'"*  »  '"«"  here. 


292 


DON-A-DREASIS 


tell  her  80,  but  I  told  her  I  would  n't  look  at  him  if  he 
wen-  the  only  man  in  the  world.  She  behaved  sham,-- 
fiilly  about  it.  I  'm  RoinR  to  make  her  leave  me  in  New 
York  when  she  goes  up  to  Canada  to  see  if  Mr.  Berwick 
ean't  do  anything  for  us  and  I  '11  write  to  you  when 
she  's  gone  because  you  know  ever  since  Mrs.  Kimball 
wrote  her  about  the  time  we  were  out  together  that  day 
she  has  been  saying  things  about  you  and  perhaps  she 
WMuld  n't  leave  me  if  she  knew  you,  awful  you,  were  in 
the  city.  Have  ft  plan  ready  for  me.  You  were  always 
good  at  plans,  were  n't  youf  I  know  this  letter  is 
frightfully  mixed  up  but  I  have  to  have  it  posted 
before  she  comes  back  from  buying  the  tickets  and  I 
have  no  time  to  read  it  over.  I  hope  you  will  be  glad  to 
see  me.    /shall." 

There  was  a  postscript  to  say  that  if  he  were  out  of 
town  "or  anything,"  he  was  to  write  her,  "Poste 
Rcstante,"  at  the  New  York  General  Post  Office. 

He  read  th,-  letter  over  to  see  what  boat  she  was  com- 
ing on,  or  when  she  had  sailed.  There  was,  of  cour.se 
no  word  of  it.  The  thought  that  she  might  have  arrived' 
already,  on  the  same  steamship  as  her  letter,  came  on 
him  in  a  warm  tremble  of  weakness. 

She  was  poor!  She  would  have  to  earn  her  living- 
in  New  York-with  him !  They  would  be  together,  on 
the  level  of  a  common  poverty!  .  .  .  He  looked  up 
from  the  letter  with  a  stupefied  expression  of  guilty 
joy;  for  he  was  as  if  only  partly  awakened  from  sleep 
his  brain  was  still  befuddled  with  the  imaginary  scenes 
of  his  play,  and  he  confused  reality  with  the  pictures 
of  his  dreams  and  accepted  her  letter  as  an  announce- 


THE  IDEALIST  293 

ment  that  his  goddoss  had  been  deprived  of  her  divinity 
and  exiled  to  earth  with  him. 

The  music  publisher's  sign  on  the  door  before  him 
stared  at  him  insistently.  He  blinked  at  it-as  onr 
.night  rub  the  eyes.  Then  he  laughed,  somewhat  shame- 
facedly,  and  ran  up  the  stairs,  taking  two  of  the  steps 
at  a  time. 


XIII 

"Well,"  Miss  Morris  said,  "what  is  it?" 
What  is— what  J" 
"Is  it  good  news  you  've  had  ?    lias  someone  left  you 
a  fortune?   You  're  very  much  less  interested  in  us  than 
you  are  m  something  that  's  going  on  in>ide  you  " 

Don  looked  confused.  "It  's  something  I  wanted  to 

ask  you  about.    I  ean't-not  here."    The  lawn  party 

was  seated  all  around  them.    "It  's  something  private  " 

She  studied  him  with  an  appearance  of  apprehension. 

Has  Mr.  Kidder— " 

''No,  no.  It  -s  nothing  like  that.  Let  me  walk  home 
with  you  to-night.    I  can't  tell  you  here." 

She  looked  down  at  the  handle  of  her  parasol  and  be- 
pan  to  finger  the  tassel.  She  said  nervously :  "  How  are 
the  plays  getting  on?  Have  you  started  to  write  one 
yet?  I  was  thinking,  the  other  day,  of  a  good  plot  about 
~l  can  t  remember-  But  you  must  have  thought  of 
hundreds  by  this  time,  have  n't  you?"  Her  smile 
seemed  to  tremble  on  Iier  lips  in  a  way  he  had  never  seen 
her  smile  flutter  before. 


294 


DON-A-DREAMS 


"Why,ye«!  I  thought  of  one  to-day.  WhatuiMitf" 
He  laiiuhfd,  for  no  rcaHop,  unlcaa  it  was  that  she  hot. 
acif  wHim-d  nn  thp  point  oriauijhtcr.    "Letmeaee!" 

"You  're  like  me.  I  can't  remember  mine.  It  wiu 
Boiiiethini;  about—" 

"Oh,  I  know,"  he  broko  in.  "It  waa  like  the  thinir  I 
aaw-'Thc  Enchanted  Castle.'  It  was  about  a 
Prince—" 

He  beijan  to  tell  her,  and  she  made  a  good  pretenc 
of  li«tpnin(f,  though  her  eyes  would  have  betrayed  her  if 
she  had  raised  them  to  him.  She  no<lded  or  said  "Yes?" 
to  encourage  him  whenever  he  paused.  He  broke  down 
with  "Oh,  I  can't  tell  you.  I  have  n 't  it  clear  yet.  I—" 
She  said:  "Tell  me  on  our  way  home  to-night." 

They  rose  together.  "I  may  be  kept,"  he  explained, 
"in  the  dressing-room.    Sometimes  the  boys-" 

"I  'II  wait,"  she  said.    "Don't  try  to  hurry  them." 

He  had  kept  her  waiting  at  least  five  minutes,  standing 
inside  the  stage  entrance  in  her  waterproof,  listening  to 
the  rain.  She  wore  3  little  cap  with  a  red  feather  in  it; 
her  cheeks  were  burning.  "Have  you  no  umbrella!" 
she  cried.  "Or  rubbers?" 

"Yours  will  cover  us  both.  It  was  n't  raining  very 
hard  when  I  came.    My  shoes  don't  leak." 

"But  you  must  get  rubbers,"  she  scolded,  letting  him 
take  her  umbrella  from  her.  "You  'II  catch  your  death 
of  cold." 

He  opened  the  door  for  her.  "I  'II  get  them  in  the 
morning-first  thing."  He  put  up  the  «  iibrella  and 
held  it  over  her.    She  went  up  the  street  with  him,  lee- 


THE  IDEALIST 


29S 


turinu  him  on  the  care  of  his  hcnlth.  At  the  corner,  she 
iDok  h»  arm  and  Rtoppcd  him  on  the  curb.  "I  'vo  half 
a  mind  to  take  a  car,"  she  aaiil. 

"No,  don't,"  he  coaxed.  "I  want-I  hav.-  wimcfhing 
lo  aak  you.  Let  ua  Ret  off  Broadway.  Let  us  walk  up 
Fifth  Avenue.    It  will  be  quieter." 

•'Well,  promise  me  you  'II  never  do  it  again,"  she 
said,  with  a  fond  severity. 
' '  Never  again !    (;ome  on. " 

She  tripped  across  the  shining  wet  asphalt,  on  hig 
arm,  her  skirta  gathered  above  her  ankles,  as 
heedless  of  the  rain  as  a  Frenchwoman  in  a  picture. 
When  the  came  to  the  double  file  of  electric  globes  that 
shone  mistily,  two  by  two,  like  a  saluting  guard,  up  the 
slope  of  Fifth  Avenue,  in  the  v  hite  obscurity  of  fog  nntl 
rain,  he  said:  "You  remember- in  the  Park— the  other 
day-you  asked  me  about  Miss  Richardson  f" 
"YesT" 

"I  've  just  had  a  letter  from  her.  She  's  coming  to 
New  York. ' ' 

"OhT" 

"She  'II  have  to  earn  her  living.  They  We  lost  what- 
ever money  they  had.  Her  mother  invested  it— in 
stocks,  I  think.  She  wants  me  to  tell  her  what  to  do- 
for  wrrk. ' ' 

She  had  drawn  back  a  little  from  him,  at  the  first 
word  of  Miss  Richardson,  and  a  point  of  the  umbrella 
had  caught  her  cap.  She  felt  her  feather  now-to  see 
that  it  was  not  broken-and  took  his  arm  again.  She 
asked:  "What  can  she  doT" 

He  explained  the  circumstances,  as  well  as  he  could. 


296 


DON-A-DBEAMS 

"What  do  you  think?"; 


She  Jistened,  rather  coldly, 
asked,  at  last. 

''I  think  you  should  advise  her  to  go  back  to  Canad, 
I  don't  see  tnat  she  could  do  anything  here  " 

herS;C'.r°*-*'-t''^."  hes„g,ested.  "Wit, 

She  cried  out  indignantly  against  such  a  proposal 
He  d,d  not  know  what  the  stage  was,  for  a  gfr  -   Th 

It   s  all  right,"  she  said,  "if  you  're  born  into   t     < 
your  parents  are  actors.    But  for  an  unprected  ^^rT 

''Art'  "7°"  *"  ^"'P  "^^  «^"ht'her  batt t 
1  thought  perhaps  you  'd  help  her  " 

Me  ?  I  can 't  fight  my  own !  No.   Tell  her  to  stay  -it 

iy.^V^'^'^f  "*  ^^'  pavement,  in  silence.     She  saw 

reUel  Z.  Z^""-^'''-    "'  *^-^''*  ^"e  had  Jar- 
"Quarrelled*" 

"Yes     That  day  in  the  Park,  you  said-" 
He  shook  h,s  head.    "She  never  quarrelled  with  me." 
You   re  f„e„ds  st.ll-after  what  happened?" 
Nothing  happened,"  he  said.     "I  thought  she    T 

ihen  you  want  her  to  come  here?" 
Her  tone  did  not  warn  him     "Ye-es  "),»„«„*       , 
donhtfiiiw  ".-fti,        .  '     "6  confessed 

doubtfully.     If  there  's  anything  she  can  do. ' ' 

bhe  had  released  his  arm.    "Why?"  she  asked   m 
straining  .e.elf.    "Whatisit?    Wh'at  is  thLrbSl 


297 


THE  IDEALIST 

''Nothingf-on  her  side-except  friendship  " 

sense!  T^I  ""*  "T'^'  "'  *"''"«•'*  ^"^  ^ad  more 
sense !  To  go  on  making  yourself  miserable  about  a  girl 
that  never  eared  two  straws  about  you.  I  don  >t  see  what 
you  see  .,  her- what  men  ever  see  in  girls  like  her-lJly 
bttle  creatures.  She  's  just  using  you-or  wante  to 
because  you  're  here  in  New  York  and  she  TSs  y  ~ 
can  help  her.  She  ruined  your  eollege-your  con  Ja 
college  for  you,  and  now  she  'U-you  'lUet  her  dTthe 
same  thmg  here.    I  thought  you  had  more  sense  -'' 

"Twll  .;.   ■,,   ■    .'Y'"«''*^i°e«."  he  replied  gently. 
.     ^^"      sheened.    "It  's  the  truth."    She  jerked 

ight  from  a  street  lamp.     "It  'd  be  just  like  you  to 
throw  yourself  away  on  a  ehit  like  that-who  would  n' 
half  appreciate  you."  "  "  u  i. 

stand 'l--'^''"'*'"  ^'  ^^'^'^"^-    "^-  ^°"  ''^^'*  "°'^«'-- 

"I  will,  too !"  Her  voice  broke.    "I  think  too  much  of 

you  to  see  you  doing  such  a  thing  without  trying  to 

Canada  You  were  just  beginning  to  get  along  all  ri<-ht 
agam  when  she  must  come  upsetting  all  our  plans  and 
making  you  miserable. "  She  threw  away  all  her  dignity 
ah  her  reserve  "Have  n't  I  tried  to-  Have  n^t  la' 
right  0-  Don  t  you  even  care  enough  for  me  to-to  let 
me  tell  you— to  let  me  help  you  ?" 

"You  don't  know,"  he  said.    "You  don't  understand, 
bhe    s  been-ever  since  I  can  remember-we  've  been 

ii,  ;  -■  u^^  ^!"'^'' '"''  has-has  grown  up  with  her.    All 
tnat   s  best— 

"And  have  n  't  I  ?    Ever  since  you  were  a  little  fellow 


298 


D0N-A-DREAM8 


-your  first  day  at  school-and  ever  since-  And  now 
when  we  were-  I  won 't  let  her !  She  has  no  more  claim 
on  you  than  anyone  else.  Friendship!  She  'd  throw 
you  over  in  a  minute,  would  n't  she?  Has  she  ever 
said—  Has  she  ever  promised—  " 

"It  is  n't  her.  It  's-myself."  He  glanced  at  her 
timidly,  and  saw  only  her  mouth,  in  the  white  light  of 
the  electric  globe  before  them,  the  rest  of  her  face  beins 
in  the  shadow  of  the  umbrella;  b,ii  her  lips  were  tragic- 
ally drawn  and  twisted ;  and  the  sight  of  them  silenced 
him.  He  understood  that  he  was  giving  her  pain-as 
he  seemed  to  give  everybody  pain-his  mother,  his 
father,  Margaret  sobbing  on  the  porch,  his  cousin  Con- 
roy,  who  hated  him.  He  felt  helplessly  guilty,  without 
knowing  what  it  was  in  him  that  grieved  and  disap- 
pointed every  one  who  had  any  affection  for  him 

"Well  then,"  she  said  hoarsely,  "I  won't  let  you 
You  must  n't  do  it.    It 's  some  false  idea  of  honor     I- 
Your  other  friends  have-have  rights,  too.    You  owe  us 
something."   She  had  regained  some  sort  of  control  of 
herself  with  an  effort  that  left  her  voice  uncertain,  un- 
strung.   '  You  have  been  trying  to  wreck  your  whole  life 
on  account  of  her.  You  failed  in  your  examinations  for 
the  university- with  her.    You  ran  away  from  college- 
on  account  of  her.     And  now  you  want  to-  It  's  a 
shame !  '    She  turned  with  him  into  the  cross  street  on 
w^hich  she  lived,  and  taking  his  arm  again,  she  said: 
Don  t  you  even  think  enough  of  me  to  take  my  advice' 
Are  n  t  we  even-even  friends  enough  for  that?" 

"You  're  everything  that  's-  You  're  the  best  friend 
I  ever  had." 


THE  IDEALIST 


—  299 

-iTe:?";;rir:r-  .^^^--^'p^ou.  i.. 

do  things  for  her  why  1„  r       .^'^'^    ^'"^  '^  y""  '» 
"I  will.    I-_"       ^     "  *  ^°"  '^''  tl'e'n  for  meV 

"Then  give  her  up.    Let  her  im     Tf   i,    .. 

",';'»"'»«-hiip.r.„i„n,e,i  Her  ,„,„ 

p.^L„;ii':L^t^----a;e.... 

ij     ,  tnrongh    blood    m   her    thrnnt      '.v 

would  n't  make  me  ashamed.    You  're  t^-  '  "" 

They  stood  at  the  foot  of  her  stensr       •     u 
on  the  umbrella     TTb  „n  i^      ^    ^  '  ^"^  '"'""  beating 

dimness.  "T  take  the  ."";,'?, """'  ""'^  "^  «»  ^^ite 
chattering,  'ft  l^o^ol^'h^  ^  .H,^'  t  ^T*" 
Don't— "Wo- 1,     J  1.  i  lie  ram    s  so  cold.    I_ 

felt  itshakS  '  '"".'oooZ^^  '"'^'""^^'  ^-^  '^'^ 
with  a  little  hvsterif.  p=t„v,    «  i  ■     •     •     She  turned 

and  she  stumbW  wt  "  hT't  *'f  "''"  "^  ^'"'' 
if  the  elimb  were  a  mill'higV  '"  '""*  '•''"''^''  ^ 

w.  h  a  sharp,  nervous  suddenness  *'"  '°°'"  ^'"'* 

pointed  everybody?    WhJ  did  n'   ih"    /TV-""*  '''''^■ 

o«Ti  life  in  his  own  IJ      /k        '^  '''*  '"'"  "^«  ^is 

own  way,  and  be  satisfied  with  that? 


300 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


Why  were  they  always  interfering  with  him-fyinp  t 
make  h,m  do  what  they  wished,  instead  of  what  /, 

\vZ  T,  f  f"'  ''""'  """  ^"^  ^'««  Morris,  no« 
What  did  she  know  about  Margaret  that  she  shoul, 
turn  on  him  so? 

of^li^T^''  7^  angrily,  glaring  at  the  pavement  ahea< 

of  h>m,  and  splashing  from  the  curbstones  into  the  run 

ning  gutters  as  he  crossed  the  streets.    The  avenue  wa, 

deserted,   except  for  an  occasional   belated  cab   tha 

.lragg..d  by  on  its  noiseless  tires,  behind  a  slow  clatt 

of  t.red  hoofs,  the  driver  muffled  to  the  ears  in  h  s  rat 

cape,  to  fares  shut  in  behind  the  misted  panes  of  win 

dows  that  were  as  dark  as  those  of  the  closed  hoZ 

which  Don  passed.    He  strode  down  the  shining  flat 

stones,  alone  with  his  indignation  and  driven  by  it 

swinging  his  clenched  hand.  ' 

It  was  the  very  violence  of  his  pace  that  brought  him 

rehef,  at  last ;  for  the  blood  drove  through  his  body  with 

a  bnsk  exhilaration  that  was  irresistible.     He  threw 

back  his  shoulders,  to  fill  his  lungs,  he  put  his  chin  up" 

his  frown  began  to  change  from  a  worried  glower  to  an 

expression  of  defiance.     .     .     If  they  were  all  again.t 

him,  why,  let  them  be  so!    Let  it  rain!    What  did  he 

care?    The  whole  world  had  been  against  him.    Fori 

had  done  its  worst.     And  in  spite  of  it-in  spite  of 

h  s  hfe  was  working  out  in  the  way  he  had  planned ;  and 

burst  of  sunshme  ,n  which  this  black  downpour  would 
come  to  an  end  in  the  morning 
He  swung  along  with  a  confident  step,  spuming  the   I 


— trying  to 
jf  what  he 
[orris,  now. 
she  should 

ment  ahead 
to  the  run- 
jvenue  was 

I  cab  that 
low  clatter 
in  his  rain 
les  of  wiii- 
sed  houses 
ining  flafr- 
ren  by  it, 

ought  him 
body  with 
He  threw 
i  chin  up ; 
wer  to  an 

II  against 
at  did  he 

Fortune 
spite  of 

!oin  him; 

ned;  and 
like  the 

ur  would 


THE  IDEALIST  3^1 

wet  stones  underfoot     He  toU  tv.        ^      ■ 

adversity  (and  M'sMorrM  '""""'='' "^  •>«  defiance  of 
i.ewouldVeverbt^J^^iriner,'''"'''  ''"''''  ''^' 


•ning  the 


PART  rv" 
THE  VISIONARY 


,w, 


He  looked  around  himnt  ♦»,„  1, 

"'■"'y  dashed  in  thTro   at  th"";'":'  °*  '^^'"^  ^-^d- 
stopped  dead,  in  the  midst  of  "      .     l'""^  '""•  ""^ 

■•""'I  facing  the  double  doors  that  w»  ,  ?'"'""'  P'"""' 
'ition  at  the  end  of  theT  *  ^r  ?  "'"'*''  ^'^'  "  ?«"•- 
;etter-received  on  the  n^T"^'  "*"•  '"'"^'--Margaret 's 
'^e  address;  and  ever^tSht  T"""'  '""^  ^'^^"  ^in^ 
'■"d  been  rushing  toward  tht  ''""^  "■'"»*«'  ••"'>=<■. 
breathlessly.  The  marwho  )  .°"""""  °*  '''^  '"•"^« 
tad  Kone  "Pstairst  elT  he  thTri"'  *"''  '''""•^•<^» 
heard  his  heart  beatilVnht  ^/  """*  «°'"''-     »« 

"f  the  rooM  seemed  oblhse"'  ""• '  '^'  ^""^^  «"«°«e 
"""  to  the  pulTeof  hk  T^'  ""'^  ^  ^^'^^y  ««en. 
f-e  the  n^aeWmad  1  7;::;  -"^r™^^  ''-^'  '« 
ftded  and  simpering  eoquelr^^her'  ^*  '""^  ""^^  '^ 
old  windows-old  windowrtw  r  *'"'  "^^^-dressed 
'•-^  eyes  of  a  hom^and  s  illT'  °""  ''""  »''-  "■»"- 
"f  welcoming  the  hoiTboa^de:  "  '"'*"^'''  ''^^*-- 

-IVfr'hfrlhVT'f  '"'^"  *«  «*--•     He 
^She  was  smiling,  with  an  air  of  having  taken  advan- 

305 


8W  DON-A-DREAMS 

tngo  of  him.  of  havinsr  studied  him  while  he  wm  , 
aware  of  her;  an.l  he  eauKht,  «t  once,  in  that  Zill 
new  expres«,o„  of  friendly  eritici.m,  of  amu^d  M 
anee,  hat  marked  some  unexpected  ehange  in  her  S 
came  to  h.m  to  «ive  him  her  hand.    Hia  voice  clung 

Xhn^'  '  ""  "  '""■'•   "^''^  •^■'^  °''  y°"  --«  •• 

"I-I  had  to  work,"  he  said. 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  still  smiling.  "Oh,  I  forg 
that  yoiT  were  a  working  man  now  I " 

Her  somewhat  formal  affectation  of  parlor  gaiety  h. 
the^effect,  on  h,m,  of  an  insincerity;  he  could  nof  fi„ 

i„thp,nT''1  "  T^'"""  *•"**  "^^"'^  """ompromisingl 
n  the  angle  of  a  sofa  arm,  shook  it  and  sat  down  again. 
It.    "Won't  you  take  a  chair?" 

The  nearest  was  a  little  spindle-shanked  pretence  o 
elegance  that  had  been  gilded  with  a  brud.  "I  'r 
afraid  that  will  break  with  you,"  she  warned  him  If, 
had  to  cross  the  room  to  a  bow-legged  parlor  chair  tha 
was  all  curves  and  discomfort ,  and  the  distance  that  1«, 
between  them,  then,  was  chilling 

■'We  arrived  Wednesday,"  she  said,  as  if  he  had 
asked  her  for  that  information.  "Mother  left  at  si. 
o_clock  last  night.    So,  you  see,  I  did  n't  waste  any  time, 

He  shook  his  head,  unable  to  get  his  eyes  past  the 
worn  seam  of  the  carpet  that  divided  them.  She  had 
ehange.1.  She  was  older,  more  self-possessed,  with  an 
air  of  havmg  come  back  from  travel  to  see  him  from  a 
new  point  of  view.  Even  her  clothes  were  stran-e  ■  f,.r 
in  his  expectation,  he  had  thought  of  her  as  dr^ed  in 


THE  VISIONARY  ^ 

n  plain  bUek  St  a  2^  t*'T  *''''''' "'"'''"•^'''''^«' 
at  her  wrists  an  eolla  f  iT!":'  "'*\'"'"''''  "^  '■"chin; 
wh.-n.  from  that  eo     r  ^I ^.7^'  'Jf  "^^  ""-■^'^ 

"Tell  me  about  you«Wf  "  .h       '•?'"""  "''""''• 
Conroyr-  '  ^''''^''f.     she  said.     .    .    "How  is 

','*^e  's  .    .    .    well." 
_  Are  you  tORcther  still  f" 

Y^es.    We  live  together.  " 

what  IS  he  doing f" 

"S'.'":~rw,f"f'^-.. 

^rght„e...baveyo:mad?:prf:;l?./'^'^™'-'' 
He  shook  hi8 head     "l_" 

should  see  you."  '''^'  everything  until  I 

"Did  n't  you  »»,•  i 

"How  eould  IJ    i  did  n't?n      T'"'"''  yourself?" 
«f-    I  thought  you-"  "^  "^  ""^"""S  to  think 

He  found  her  starinc  at  h;™  ;„ 
^Iped  miserably.   "l  hat.  n"t  f  '"  t"^  ''"""'y-    ^e 
«elf-except  su/ing-and f^il'""""  'TT  '"'  '»^- 
;;What  is  'suping'r"  ''       ''■''"'  P'"^'-" 

r-like  the  chorus- 


have 


to 


sing. 


-only  you  don't 


And  that  's  all 


He  did 
She  rose 


not  reply. 


-ou've  thought  of!  "she  cried. 


stiffly.    She  said  .."TL.n  I  suppose 


I  'li  have 


308 


UUN-A-UKKAMS 


♦"I"'"' ^"'"■th'nK  inygelf.  Thank  you.  I  'm  glad-' 
"Wait."  Up  sprang  up,  (IroppinB  his  hat.  "Don 
Ko.  I  'II-  I  '11  think  of  somethinK.  I  could  n't  thii 
of  HiiythiiiB  hut  setiiiK  y»u.  I  forgot.  1  did  n't  ha 
time.  Ther(.  'k  Koinething.  I  '11  Hnd  something.  I  kno 
n  Birl  h-Tf-Miss  Morris.  She  '11  know.  She  'a  fro 
Coulton.  I  asked  her.  She- I  only  suggested  the  stat 
becuuse  I  thought,  with  your  singing  and  that,  you  ' 
be  able  to-  I  did  n't  know  of  anything  else.  1  thougl 
when  w.'  met  W(.  'd  be  able  to  talk  it  over.  I  thougl 
you  'd  know,  yourself." 

''Well.'    Why  did  n't  you  say  so!" 
"I—"  He  looked  around  the  room,  as  if  vaguely  at 
ensmg  it  of  being  the  cause  of  his  discomfiture    " 
thought  you  would  come  out -where  we  could  talk." 

She  left  him,  to  go  upstairs  for  her  hat;  and  he  stoo, 
gazing  lit  the  empty  doorway  as  if  he  saw  there,  still 
the  expression  of  her  face  when  she  had  turned  fron 
him,  as  If  he  saw  in  that  expression  the  visible  failur, 
of  this  meeting  of  which  he  had  hoped  so  much  Will 
a  look  of  panic,  he  tumed  to  pick  up  his  hat,  and  crush 
mg  It  down  on  his  head  he  began  to  walk  :  p  and  down 
the  room,  biting  his  lip,  his  whole  face  working  in  a  des- 
perate  effort  to  think  of  something  to  do,  something  t« 
say,  by  which  to  regain  the  ground  that  he  had  lost 

When  she  came  downstairs  again,  she  found  him  pah' 
but  tremblingly  cool.  He  said,  at  once,  as  soon  as  he 
had  opened  the  door  for  her :  "  Your  letter  took  me  so  by 
siirprise-1  was  looking  forward  so  to  seeing  you-that 
I  did  n't  think  how  anxious  you  would  be  to  find  some- 
thing at  once.  How  long  have  you?  When  will  your 
mother  be  back  ? " 


THE  VISIONARY 


309 

■  week, 


"That  will  give  „g  p,,.„t    ^ 
»'nK.ng.  now;  you  should  be  abl..    .    '     "^    "  •>'""'• 
"""•"    (He  had  remembered  Pit       -"  """'•"'hint.'  with 

;'Y"u  <»uid  get  .r.  thin^  z:v:m^''t'' ^^^^^^ 

■n  «"me  of  the  big  eoncm  -i„  th      k  "  ^'''"'•''h™-'' 

...  would  „„  ^^  »;r.    N-.  .1  ,1,  ,„, 

Weil,  even  so."  Hp  wo.  j„*' 
'■^••d.  "This  is  n't  Germany  ?"™'""|'y  "n<"sco„r- 
inK  at  the  same  time  "it  ♦"  i,  "  """'^  «"  ""  ''^iuly. 
before  him,  c"nseiou8  that  h  ''"'  ^"'''  "'■"  ">■-  "•^-'d 
-  weli  as  hirnJ^tZXlMtZ^'r  '"  ''■"''''"  ""''- 
P'«y  the  part-eompelled  hv  h  ' '""  ™"'P'>'l'''l  to 

f-'.-and  he  felt  Claf!  I  ^T'''"*'""  "'"'''•' f™"' 
«  livelihood  wasa  thiof  nn  "  """"'"'  "*"  '""'"'"S 
with  him.  ^  "^  "°  'mportance  so  he  had  her 

^-^'ereeSirdltll^tt^r-  ""-•  -""  "«  -'' 
«"t  anything  but  ^sridin^',  ?™  "^  '"^  ^"""■•-  *<> 
n.y  mornings  fi^e  to  look  '":':"  ^"'^-    "^  have 

plained,  "and  I'm  uJC  Iv  "'""'""'''  '^""'"  he  ex- 
'0  do  some  play-wrS  -' "^   '"""'"''  "*  *'«  '^'''^'«' 

"You  should  n't  have  left  Pn?lo„„  '.    ,. 
manner  of  a  challenge  ^  '     '^'  "''"^'  '"  the 


DON-A-nBEAMS 

'No,"  he  admitted,  humblv     "ii„ 
helped  now."    He  had  T,t       ,  """'"ver,  it  can't  I 

for  her  part  in  that  fial     *'°"^''  "'  «Proaehing  he 
"Very  well"  '"' «"gg««ted.  « 

f-CereS^St^rirTr*^-- 

pressed  him  like  a  disill,,.  '  ''  '*'''"W  have  do- 

moments  of  hifpant  ;  r  h"*;''"*  '"  ''•^  "^-'-'i 
had  consented  to  the  1^-,,  ^''^'•'''"*?-house  parlor,  ho 
f  f  -d  the  iinif'^o?  td  h^'^•'''•■^^«'^him- 
doonvay  again,  aware  that  sh„  r  "l "''  ^'''  «'  "'« 
h-  father.  like'allThe  ofhe  'iriS  ''"  ''''"'^'  ^"^« 
stance-was  an  enemv  of  hf    Im  "PPo^'ng  eircum- 

must  love  her  without  he  Lt  Tf^  °^  ^'^^^  ^^^a*  "o 
her.  And  he  saw  this  witll„^^  ^  ""^  '"•^^"^  f^om 
-ithout  any  false  ^ZTZ  tZTr''''  ^"^^^-P''^- 

""  his  attempts  to  reaLe  thl  . ,V  ' '^"'''"'^'^  ^'»'' 
planned.  *'"'  ^^'ure  which  he  had 

we"  "als'llLTtZshJit  r-"""'^'  -  ''  '^ 
to  her,  without  lookin.  aVr  .  ^"""""^  ^"'i  '"''P'ie.l 
blue  vista  of  th  av^e  that''  '^"  ""  *'"'  ^"'»"'- 
autumn  mist  ^^*  ''^^  ^°  stone-bare  in  the 

Richardson,  be  ng  frL.on  T^.  ^™'"  "  *»>«*  ^r.. 
tiredofdrsKin/herdathV  .'""''  "'  *'-«^«''  ^as 
her  to  ,et  mfrrie^andtSLd  h'^  ^  ''^'•'  ^'^'"^'^ 
-  her  tuition.     It  was  Mar^t  wS^irTK: 


THK  VISIONAir 


her  mother  considered  nZlZT  "'"■'"'*  "^  '<''•  'i^-; 
-•d  to  „,atri„,ony,  an  aflurirl!.^":""-  --Jy  "u 
;»™t  for  young  lajie,  who  had  not^.f  """i  ?'"""P''''"- 
heir  nests.    These  opinions  had  .f  f ',■»«*"'  "-^^  built 

J«d  rejected  the  naario  ^o^tl   j??.^^*''''^'-'' 
Ihey  were  still  at  war     rZT  ^''testable  shoi.s. 

''«-'  struggle  more  dler'  7'''-  "''''''' "'^^''-' 
'^tly  looked  for  an  iXdtten™-  ''"*''"'™'  -'- 
of  the  expense  of  a  d  u'hto  T"""'  '"  '''''^'^  ''^'^ 
n-ake  herself  self-supportrn^^^  „^'"'-«'"-«t  t"«Med  to 
">  folio,  her  ambSs  Don  '  ''"  '"'^*'  '''^  f- 
promised  that  he  would        ^°"  ^««  »"  help  her.     He 

^>-t::^rs:^c^f^:f''^'-Mor..i, 

"a'-ting  in  the  rain  at  Mr  irhrt'  "1'  ""*  ""''''-'  *''""' 
""  unfrank  manner  that  mS  "nT""'  '^'  ''«''  ^ad 
She  had  not  met  his  eyes  Ztj  '^'""'''  ""P"^^'b'- 
^;"  With  hi,s  usual  fTnS:''ST  "V""^™"'-' 
«tage  promenades,  had  beel  „.  .  ^  '""''"'  '"  '^eir 
'""es,  seated  at  the  rustic  tablcwS  "?"'•  ^^•^'•"■"' 
"P  to  find  her  watching  h^mwkhfn'.'''  ^"'  '°'"^-' 
that  startled  him     Shp  Z     Z  **"'"^'h«ul  intensity 

'^  »rt  of  sidelong  watchfu  'sf '  T-  "'^""-  «-•--? 
'te  she  was  thin\7ng  of  him  and  'f  ^'  ''■■'"  ^"-' 
^he  was  disappointed  in  him  but  eft''?-''"'  '"''  '"^^ 
liim  to  defend  himself  "  '*  ""Possible  for 


312 


D0N-A-DREAM8 


stances-she  listened  without  a  word.  And  when  he 
asked  her  for  help,  for  advice  at  least,  she  replied:  "I 
can't  help  her.    I  could  n't  help  myself." 

"Will  you  let  me  bring  her  to  call  on  you?    If  you 
were  to  meet  her— ' ' 

She  shook  her  head.  "What  is  the  use?  I  can  do 
nothing  for  her.  She  wall  be  better  in  Canada." 
"You  are  very  unjust  to  her,"  he  said,  hurt. 
She  did  not  reply.  He  nursed  his  resentment  until, 
in  a  later  scene,  he  caught  her  regarding  him  with  a 
tragic  dumb  gaze  that  overcame  him,  like  a  memory  of 
his  mother's  grief,  with  a  strickening  remorse;  and 
when  they  met  again,  he  said :  "  You  asked  me,  once,  not 
to  judge  you-and  you  're  doing  that  now,  when  you 
should  n't,  when  you  don't  und.  rstand.  You  don't 
know  how  it  hurts  me. ' ' 

She  brought  her  hand  up,  as  if  to  brush  back  a  stray- 
ing hair  from  her  forehead,  shutting  her  eyes  for  th,' 
instant  that  her  hand  covered  them.  "No,"  she  said 
"It  'syou." 

"How  is  it?"  he  argued.  "What  have  I  done?  I  'm 
what  I  always  have  been.  .  .  I  can't  change  I 
can't  be  nntrue-to  myself.  I  'm-I  'm  not  very  happy, 
but  I  should  despise  myself  if  I  did  that." 

He  did  not  look  at  Iht  in  the  long  silence  that  fol- 
lowed. As  she  left  him,  she  said:  "I  'm  not  accusing 
you.  Only  .  .  .  I  can't  help  you  to  do  what  you 
wish.    Don't  ask  me— please." 

When  he  had  left  Margaret,  after  that  first  meeting 
he  had  been  numb  with  a  cold  depression  of  spirits.  Ik' 


313 


THE  VISIONARY  gjg 

<'"e  to  one  of  those  unre^onaWe  o  T^''  '""'  ''''" 
perament  which  he  couT2  T/^^'"'"'  °*  '"^  *«'»- 
"ot  explain,  which  we"  tleh'^'  ^''"''  ""^  -«'" 
they  were  to  Miss  Morr  s  anHo  /  """'"""^  *°  ''™  «« 

-  if  his  affection  for  Margare   w^?7r'  '""•    '*  "™ 

-  alone  than  when  heX: ^rh  r  riTL^^''"  '' 
nation  made  her  a  deuro,.  «„        •    ,  '  ""*  ""«"'- 

than  she  was  in  her  owTjerson"  Ir  "'7*  ''""*■'"* 
followed,  no  matter  how  worrTed  an.  "V'  '"^^  *"«' 
;v'"ie  he  was  with  her,  as  soo's  h'  hadlfTr  !"'  "" 
tormented  by  the  same  r»=ti       i  "  '"''' ''«  "'as 

c'ors  that  had  !^epthTt2rV°T^'  ^'''^  ^«'»«  «- 
the  time  they  ha'dbt^n  Sa^e'd^  "''''«-  "^  >>-  »  all 

Mo^rL'trardtir"""-^"' «''''-'  *°  '-^i- 

"'er.     He    brushed    his    r  K.'""'  '°  ^'^'^  '''"  ^'^^  "« 

eally;  he  Polished  his^^l^/rJ"  T'"^^^^^^ 
S-'"lped  his  breakfast-  «Z-t  "'"borate  care;  he 

the  str^t  that"? ^„em  er  di:  ZT  ''  ''"'  "" 
news  to  take  to  her  and  nn  nl       T  ™'^«uraging 

turned  aside  fro:  mZ^^oSrJTT'-  "^ 
wanderer  about  the  pavements  yL  o  tL  T  ^"' 
cxeuse  for  such  an  early  call  °^  ^°""« 

^e^?iSr  :,:^ -!^;^,r''--  -^n^  her  as 
Louise"  deseendinrpaWe  '  ''  '''''  "'  "Q"""" 
•irooping  maiden  o?a'''Lovei^^S  "  f"'^'"  ''  *"« 
^^'fore  the  display  of  pho to^'ph^Ta  1  f'  r*"^ 
.-ng  at  a  vision  of  her  as^a  P  L^  ^onnaT^d' 


314 


DONA-DREAMS 


opera-in  an  opora  of  which  he  had  written  the  librett,. 
-with  her  photograph  on  a  gilded  easel,  in  the  foyer 
opposite  his  own.  In  a  bookshop,  he  saw  her  buyin.- 
a  set  of  his  collected  plays.  All  the  winilows  that  he 
passed  were  filled  yith  presents  which  the  future  lield 
for  her.  A  hansom  cab  was  drawn  up  before  a  florist's 
door  while  he  was  ordering— 

He  frowned  in  an  attempt  to  concentrate  his  iiiimi 
on  some  practical  solution  of  her  present  difficulties; 
and  he  even  bought  a  morning  newspaper  to  read  tlij 
"want"  advertisements  again.  But  there  was  no  sit- 
uation vacant  that  she  could  fill;  and  he  could  think 
of  nothing  except  the  possibility  that  she  had  thought 
of  something  herself.  He  went  apologetically  to  con- 
sult her,  with  the  paper  in  his  pocket  as  an  excuse. 

The  maid  who  came  to  the  door  told  him  that  "Miss 
Kichards"  had  just  gone  out. 

He  hurried  back  toward  Broadway  in  the  hope  of 
overtaking  her.  He  thought  he  saw  her  in  the  distance 
but  a  nearer  view  showed  that  it  was  not  she.  He  be- 
gan to  wander  about  from  street  to  street  in  the  idle 
hope  of  coming  on  her  suddenly,  his  whole  mind  occu- 
pied by  that  absurd  chance,  in  the  insane  longing  of 
love  that  is  a  torture  of  impossible  expectation,  of  a 
wish  so  strong  that  it  seems  a  surety. 

He  spent  the  morning  chasing  this  will-o'-the-wisp, 
alternating  between  a  mood  of  pity-in  which  he  saw' 
her  going  from  office  to  office  in  search  of  employment, 
alone  and  discouraged-and  a  glorious  foresight  of  :i 
future  in  which  she  should  be  as  fortunate  as  he.  Novi- 
the  streets  were  crowded  with  the  rich  in  spirit,  who 


THE  VISIONARY  ,,, 

passed  him  by  as  a  strpot  h 

^'•d  the  people  and  all  fhe"  „f    •.         '"'*"'  *'"-'  ''°"«™ 
'he  background  and  th  ''  "^  *''"  ^'"•'''  "«'•« 

'Hat  wa/to  hold  "^i^^J^^f^'^,*''!  chorus  for  a  life 
stage.  '     "'^  '""^-  *'»«  e'anng  center  of  the 

oveLro^whStt'eorf'^'-  "«  ""^-^  "^  Spring 
t-ned  it  up  to  eoneed  o^lL"  'f'"  """*  ''''  ""^ 

"■4'ht  walk  behind  him  Ho  w  /'"'"  ''"^•'"^'  ^>'''" 
"'"I  for  that  reason  t.  cLi  [  T  "^ '"'*  «'"^^'«' 
P»eketof  his  coat.  Htfae™  ,"  ''^^"  '"""^  "'  *e 
«i«'ful  emptiness;  his  hair   n^'  "*";  '"''  ^'^^  '■"^  » 

-«  fringe  on  the':S;;rr=;'j;;;:r^" 


U 

She  had  been  to  the  studio  of  a  Mr  r  u 
M  ^'"ging  whom  she  had  known  flr'^'"'  '^  '^^^^er 
Don  called  on  her,  in  "he  a f til  T'^'''  ""''  '^'"■" 
ried  look  of  diseouragemen  whT\'""^'  "''  ""^  "•"- 
"•ell.  ShehadbeentofdTlattW  '  '""'"^"'"''  ^ 
»  her  singing  or  her  mulT*^-''' ""'''"''' '"' '''-■'' 
choirs  were  out  of  the  oneT"  .  '"^-  '^^^  "'^"'"ch 
-i-  worth  speakfng  oVex  r/':';  '""'  ^'"'^  "«  -'" 
Jd  not  voice  enou^l^tr'ZV^J^T'''  T'  ''' 

--- Piano  p„pi.S;,-—-P^.^ 


DON-A-DREAMS 


316 

as  music  teacher  in  some  Rirl's  school;  and  oven  IV, 
that,  she  would  need  influence,  "pull."    I„  ^Zt   ! 
n>ust  recognize  that  in  New  Y^rk'the  compet Wo  \ 
^0  keen   fflus.cians  were  so  numerous  and  ^he    v  rl, 
o    ab,hty  was  so  high,  that  it  was  impossible  for  her 
uppor^  herself  as  so  many  young  women  support 
thomselve^An  smaller  cities.    It  would  be  easi4  for  1 
among  fr.Jnds  and  relatives,  in  the  circle  o    fam 
acquaintances.    "In  f«nt  "  c...  ..„:j   .,,.."  ^"""'-^ 


'In  fact,"  she  said 


he  told  me  to  yd 
That  \ 


acquaintances, 
home ! 

"That  's  all  right,"  Don  replied  doggedly 
what  they  always  tell  you."  ^ 

"But  what  am  I  to  do?" 
^^''Stay  here.  Something  will  turn  up.     It   •«  boun,l 

ui^trS?^:yr''^=''""*---^'»^''--tun, 

"I  know.     That  's  the  fix  I  was  in     That  '«  u-i,     t 
took  what  I  ;m  doing  now.    So  d^d  Miss    LU    tl, 
had  her  smging  and  her  music,  like  you  " 

wouS"n?LS"  '°"    """'      ^°"    ^"-    Moth,.,. 
"Well,"  he  said,  wearily,  "I  don't  ^ee  what  your 
mother  has  to  do  with  it-if  she  won't  help  you 
wa.  the  same  way  with  my  father.    He  tried'to  stop 

revdt.  '*■"■""'  '"'""''"''  "*  '''''  ^'"^«  ^«gg-«on  of 

In  the  pause  of  silence  he  found  himself  tired  of  the 

whole  discussion.     The  morning's  walk  had  fnZ     , 

h.s  body,  and  the  strain  of  the^morltg-sXeS 


THK  VISIONARY  gj^ 

had  fatigued  his  mind.    He  felt  thp  .i.ff 
ti'ose  morning  fancies  and  thL^itk  of^'"''  T^^"" 
jap^^msofii..    Hesaid:.^t.r:;:nXri:: 

''I''-g;rtr^aU^taS 

"nt,  „i  8"  "«(.«.    I  have  thmgs  to  do  " 

"wa,sdimT™ttl,.„.-  '     ^^^"^-      But 

"How  was  it  diiJerent?" 
"You  were  different  " 

or'<?Sh't"h'''"'  ^''  ""'^■^"'"■*  »--  in  her 
>  1  might  have  expected-  You-  Chi"     au 

'urned  with  a  gesture  that  recalled  to  hTm  ^h  •      ^  ' 

"IK  at  the  gate-on  the  ,5,^7^  I  ]  *''*'""  P*""*" 

'l"arrel  with  Mrs    rim\  ,7       .  ^"^  ^"'"^  ''''»  »*  her 

-m  before\f  "ou  Id  t  "t  fn  "".  T  "^  *•■« 
I'all  in  time  to  see  her  reach  tJe  I  ","'''*'  ^^  *"  *'"' 
above.    He  pm  on  Z\Z       .       ^""^'"^  °*  the  floor 

There  he  folTa^r  oTslr  ^'^  /'^  ^*"^^^- 
^el^eentered  that  the  whoi::^;Lr  dTh^t ,:: 


0 


3"  DON-A-DREaMS 

him  pass.    It  was  not  that  she  had  quarrelled  with  h 

feront  to  her  an.vr,  aud  it  was  not  that  he  did  not  1. 
her  a«  passionately  as  ever,  though  there  was  a  desp 
of  love  .„  h,s  thought.     It  was  merely  that  he  1 

isolation  whieh  seems  to  divide  every  one  person  fn 
every  other,  the  eold  interplanetary^paee  whieh  , 
rounds   what   we   eall   souls   and  Varates   them 
eternally  as  the  worlds  of  the  solar  system.     lie  h' 
found  her  a  eenten^d  identity  following  an  orbit 
houghts  and  interests  within  whieh  she  saw  him  relo 
ng,  drawn  by  a  superior  attraction.    Love  might  bri  , 
them  a  htt  e  nearer  together;  he  felt,  now,  th      i   eo" 
never  real  y  merge  them  in  an  absolute  unity  of  inte 
est  and  outlook.    And  this  old  tragedy  of  affection  1  , 

ziz''"^ '-''' '  ''^'-^'^^  «''"^  °^  •>*"" ;: 

He  told  himself  that  he  must  find  her  something  t, 
do.    He  assured  himself  that  he  would  do  so.    But  h. 

faded  in  It  whether  she  remained  in  New  York  or  we,i» 

be,  always,  as  she  was  now,  a  fellow-human  looking  out 

look  T  T.T  "'"'"^  '^'"'^''  "f  her  identity  as  he 
looked  out  at  her.  He  was  alone  in  the  w»rld-alon.. 
even  with  her.    He  might  help  her  and  love  her,  a 

^fh  b  I""'  '^"P  ""^•^""^^  •^"*  •«'  "-'J  -t  share 
Tb  r  '"\""P™°"«ent  in  being.  The  walls  wei. 
up  between  them.  They  spoke  through  grated  win- 
dows-which,  Death,  at  last,  would  elose 


THE  VISIONABT 


»'i-n  in  tlms,.   f,,,,     ""  '"-'  '""""''^  strangely 

r-mm.linj;  |,im.s,.|f  „s  if  with  „      «  dinmg-roo.n, 

'-'  "-,.  take     ikl    :  .     "  '^""^^  ^'"-^"^  -J 
'"•"  '"'.v«  slept,  andlt  seen    ,  7.""  '"  ^'"'=''  ""•'  "'h'T 

';•'■«  witMn-.,he„;ai!':  J  T„rta'r^'""^'^''- 

(lo/in-      Bert  J'ittsev  wn«  I.,  .       ''  "Pr""-''"tly 

'■-•"m  which  there  camel     >''';"  ""'  ''"'"  '<"'='•««. 

.;;"e.io,  ,ourhrTl'^r"T'■"''"• 
"f'>vo  us  a„  in,personatirof  ;  '-""'"'"^  ^""■ 

«"'  you?    My  hands  areT:]!''        ""  ''''""^  <"  t""^'"' 
,^I.tt..y  laughed.    ..„e,  tired,    ile  has  had  a  hard 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

''Ilis  money  came  this  morning." 

""•  table,  and  p2  in  ";  ^  Y  "^""'-'"^"y  •■"•ound 
^"llcd  itoveron  heaL  t  I  ,  ""  ^•""•"^'^  ^ea,!  he 
-'-  the  flushed  and  bCat  d  f      'V'""  '"^'^  ^••"•-     ^' 

•'^;^-'-aid,wu,:::r,i"ofj;:;i---"- 
-^tvr^i':^^-— '^it.thc-- 

"-turned  his  bae.,  without  repiying,  and  went  to 


320 


DON-A-DREAMS 


the  pantry  for  the  dishes.  "We  ^ant  tn  «f  .i,  *  u, 
'•.tt«-y  explained  Pa.ifically.'^:'y:rd:rr  W  fd 
Cnnroy  mumbled  that  he  did  not  ne,.d  Ly  dfn„ 
and  ,n^t  ambling  to  the  bedroom.  Don  ^^  tZ 
he  table,  heard  him  splaahinK  water  in  the  walh  ba^ 
Ihey  sat  down  to  th.ir  meal  without  him-  aTd  pS 
wa«  oarvng  the  burned  steak,  in  the  in  of  Do 

^d  It"    """"  """"^  ""'  "'  "'«  be'rool  and  00 
tronted  his  cousm  across  the  table 

tl,Zt'"'  "."!  *'""  ^°"  P"*  y"*"-  h"'"!''  on  me  "  } 
threatened,  "you  '11  get  into  trouble."  ' 

Don  did  not  look  at  him.    "Go  away,"  he  said   " 
ilon't  want  to  talk  to  >  ou  " 
^^l^'No!     Don-tyca"'    ohf     Well,  I  want  to  talk  t 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  What  woul, 
Aunt  Jane  say  if  she-or  Uncle  John-  " 
You  mind  your—" 
"Making  a  drunken  brute  of  yourself.     You    re  a 
•I'sgrace.     It  makes  me  sick  to  see  you  "     tZ  hi     ^ 
went  to  his  head,  in  a  blinding  passfon"    "in  ^t 
to  be  locked  up  somewhere!    Drinking!    Yon  have  n' 
J  one  a  ,l„ng  but  drink  since  you  came  back  here!.;, 
ng  worse  every  day-brutalizing  yourself.     Where- 
where  do  you  think  this  is  going  to  end  ?    In  the  gutter ' 
On  the  streets!    The  town  drunkard !    In  jail  .S": 
gnnnng  worse  eveiy  day-woi^e!     You   're-" 

"WW  -''^  ^'"''^  *•"■"'*  "  P'''*^  ■"'"  Don's  hanu. 
vol   1    '        T  °*  '*''^'°^  "  'o^-    Sit  down  and  e  t 
your  dinner.     Have  some  sense  about  you  " 
Conroy  took  a  long  breath,  his  anger  checked  by 


THE  VrsiOXARY 


T,     ,  - •  321 

Oon  s  nnexpectod  attack  on  him     "W»,»«  , 

;'f  ""tr-     he  appeal..!  t?™,t«.,v..T      T" ''""'' 

pointed,  hi,  hand  shSZ-Tt         T'     ^°"'"   "" 
father--  '^-       Thesupel    Gee!    If  your 

Pittsey  t,wk  him  by  the  arm    "p„r  rr 

«e.wrLr;i"Hf:h^:'':nt'/^^'"- 

sneak.    Shut  him  up  "  '  """  ^"PinR 

it  t-n;:.,:r'irrer^,;f''"'  ""'"  -^  ^—before 
Here!     Oet  busy  w  th  thi*  " 

who  ate  in  „  ZZ.^i  '  v  ,    T'  """'''"'  '"^  ««"-"! 
''itt'^ey  spread  ^^0^1".     71""''*  ''"^'  •''•■''''-t 
i'.  satisfied  that  the  ra', ''''"';?'''  "'""-'  "n"  -ad 

'>->"  wa«  „uiet.  Con  :;:LT„t  ,  "  ""'.  """  *""' 
P"int  the  moral  that  if  /.  C^T  '"*''"'""ently  to 
J^'n  ha.,  done  as  mueh  l^^tf  TJ-'"'-'  f  father, 
"hat  th,.y  say  about  you  attme!  Wt^h"""'*  '"  ''"■• 
Mck  ,n  bed  from  worn'in.r  «I,nT  ^  ^'"""  """her 

«sham..d  to  hear  yolZZ^^]  '^oX  T  T" 
to  talk,  2/ou  are'  o     ■  "   'e  a  great  one 

'»t  of  chorus  girls.     I  have  ' -"'fall en^"'  f '"'^  """  " 
any   way.     .    .    „   „„.,    '  "  *  ^f'^  as  low  as  that, 

op  .t,       Pittsey  saul,  turning  his  paper. 


Thi'  snivelJii 


^  DON.A-DBEAMS 

He  wont  on,  in  the  same  Htrain,  cndlewly     Don  H. 

1  can't  and  I  i^X    yL'IiTI      "  '"  "  *""•  '"'"' 

writ,,  to  rrn,.|„   11.  '"''""'«  yursolf  or  I  'I 

"V       lav  '-   r     ""''  ^"'  ""'  "^  "en,  altogether  > 

won't     i/T'ou  fa";"""^,  ■"'"'•'^^'''   "-«    •"   ">S  yon, 

Jt      -^CVIS  "'"'•  ^^"'^  --"'<^  h^'at  an,, 
'""      "-"""Sn  now,  Bert,"  hesairl     "t    t  •,, 
move  out  mv  thin.»<.  *         '      ".     ue  said.      i_i 

enough.  ir^&::rL^":tLi"^ "-" 

cause,  no  doubt  waV  n  h'     ^i   u       "'^'"'"'^d  that  the 

hi-eif.  He  tr  t'r  li?*^  """'^  -*  «"-^« 
-hedone.^;r.^::-r:;r^- , 


THE  VISIONARY 


«->'il(l  liuv,.  |,i.s  „|.„..  ,'*"'"  h""  and  tho  gtarg     li^ 

'■"'• ,'"'"  "f  ti.«f  pas,,  o  th  2  "  ::•  ^^"  -'""''  ""t 

"^™Pe  them  and  be  happy.       "'"*"'"'  '"  ''''";  »>«  W"uld 

;^"''  h.'  found  one  in  TnJZ  T^  '",  ''^''  '°'  «  -»'" 
'"■"'  built  in  the  days  whl  ,?.''■'•"'"'  '"'"'«  »>at  had 
"^'■■■nwieh  village  '"  """  P"""*  "^  the  city  wa, 

fhe  baelc  room  on  the  tonTorv  I  7'"'  "'  ''"  house 
»'"'  the  dormer  windowl  thth  jf  ^l'  "'""'"^  ™«' 
"'»f;  -t  had  also  a  little  i^n  ^f  ^°°  '""^  "^^n  'ong- 
"-  'till  dented  frTthTltt'^f''"''''''^  tha't 
Pwts,  and  a  "Frankl"n''  .™!^/  "*  ""  ^'''°'^''  "ecu- 
■'  '-.'  Proee^ion  of  yo^^^;-''  7^'"'  ""^  ""-^^ 
P-r  Bohemians  through  the  «1   v.'"'  ^"^'^  "'"' 
•  ""-struggles  in  New  #ork.4r     *"""  ^«*''"'  "f 
'  '7'^  to  broil  a  chop  i„to  '  the  I         "'^"^  ^"^  "  fi'"^'" 
»  toast.    An  •  yuh  can  get  at  J  """?  ''"■■•^'  "''  «  «'iee 
"'^■earner  to  the  «stVunt  "  '"'"'  "^^  ^'""^  "'oun' 

---ed  .our  dollars  a  week  rent,  but  When  .he 


DON-A-DREAMS 


324 

found  that  Don  could  not  take  the  room  at  such  a  pri 
Bhe  let  him  have  it  for  $2.50,  on  condition  that  he  si 
ply  his  own  towels  and  bedding. 
''I  'm  givin'  't  to  yuh  fer  less  than  I  w'u'd  to  a, 

her  with",',  T'  ''"*•"  '""^  ''''■  ^<^  »-  ti'-k 
her  with  all  the  gratitude  of  innocence 

,.,,,>  ?  "«\P'«««"  '^agon  drawn  by  a  broken-kne, 
A  hite  horse  he  moved  his  trunk,  his  share  of  the  be 
dmg,  a  k,tchen  chair  and  some  cooking  utensils.  I 
settled  his  accounts  with  Pittsey,  who  said  nothir 
either  in  blame  or  regret.  Then  he  went  in  peace  to  ,: 
his  luncheon  in  the  "rest'runt"  which  Mrs.  McGah 
had  recommended. 

It  was  that  little  French  resort  of  unsuccessful  Bo 
hemians  which  used  to  be  known  to  New  York  by  th, 


5.  i 


si  -'  i 


III 

FoRTiPTED  by  a  bowl  of  watery  soup  and  a  tasteless 
fricassee  of  chicken,  he  started  out  to  call  on  M™ 
more  hopeful  of  the  success  of  his  relations  with  he 
smce  he  had  solved  his  other  problems  of  intercour.^ 
he  f''""^^\P'^'^  °f  elimination;  and  as  he  walked, 
n  whtrr  ".TT  "'  "P"'"^'"^  ''"'I  explanation. 
*w  u^  '"'"'''  P'""''  ^^^  !■«  '^''"Id  better  help  her 
now  that  he  could  give  his  whole  time  to  her,  and  she- 
instead  of  criticising  and  accusing  him-would  discuss 
her  situation  ,„  a  friendly  confidence  that  would  be 


THE  VISIONARY  335 

t.  hi.  „m„^    st  12  .  ■'  '  *°t ""'  '■•  "  1"' 

.ifiti'in^rrraV.?-;  '"-■  ^'" 

his  visite.    He  waited  m\h    T    ,^    ^  frequency  of 

a.aet..enteH.,u;o;':HeltS- 

of  a  tragedy     Sho  l,v,i,  j     *  7  •  ^"^  *"^  climax 

bfen  worried— worried  ahf,„f  r.  «^Piam.     I  had 

things.    I  had  ^t  hid  f  Conroy-and  about  other 

^iniir-' '"'  *"""^  ^°"'^«'*'"  *«  p''*  -•  "I  ■« 


^  DON-A-DBEAMS 

^•Mother  has  written  me."    She  did  not  turn  arou 

She  has  n't  even  enough  money  to  come  for  me     < 

could  only  send  me—"    Wo  „   ■         .  "    ^ 

her  voice      ''™„      •,      .      lu'vered  at  the  choke 

"What  else  can  I  dot"  alio  n»;„j    *    • 

,.l     "°*''  '^^  "^^  set  something  better. ' ' 
lake  whatf  " 

be;ve\;r;or-itk^^irthr '"  -'' 

penses  until-  I  have  lot.  of'mte;*.    Bo'^  ^7  I^! 
It   II  be  the  end  of  evervthinn  "    v       -,        *="■     ^ 
ened  him.    "I  Ve  bL'TaSg  her^LtoT  7^" 
st^  ITi  tr^'  *"  -  »  *^-ie-tHe  contt 

hT  e2d%S'  ^Ti-T  --  in  a'Ss' sS;  "^ 
Z  if  yot  ga"   '=    ^-^  ^'•^'^   '«  -^''^S  •"-  to. 

did  n't  ^"'f'  ""'*  '"""^  °'  '•«'•  °'d  spirit:   "You 
did  n     seem  to  care  whether  I  went  or  not-" 

I  know.     It  has  n't  been-   Everyone  has  been 


THE  VISIONARY 


against  me,  worrying  me  Pnn..^ 
quarrelling  with  me  T  ^""'"yT"'  drinking  and 
home.  Mother  \T,  andT.  ''m"''  "'•""  ^^^^  «' 
father  does.  I  did  n't  ::^;a';Lgri  w *°'  ^^-'"^ 
coming.    I  would  n't  give  m     ■"  ^"^  y°"  ^'''•« 

you  S  itr,'"'""'"^  ""  ^^''^  -■'^«.  "what  do 

ThZ"  uThin:  tl'b  *  ""r  "'"'"^  ''^  >--  doing 
Perhaps  StTerger;rfn''^AVR"  ^^^^^  --'• 
-hme.    Voueangoo^nstLVn'i.^Jrm'ra^d^^' 

''?ha?'ronTyteWrn'^''1V'*  ^"^  ">-  ''-<^-" 
already.  You  can  ^Zln  "  '^"'"^  ^^'^  ^  ^-"^ 
parts.  Besides,  you  don't  L/T'  °*  **■«  ««»"«•• 
roy  and  PittseV  and  l-have  h       r  '^'-^°"- 

dollars  a  week  eaTh  and  I  h»r       ^'"^  ^'"'  «'"'"*  ^ve 
where  I  am  now  "  '''*''"  ^  """^  "Jo  "  for  less, 

^^Shesaid,  out  of  her  thoughts:  "It,, orrible  to  be 

''1' "irsat^ow^'^r  ^*  '^°""'  "^  ^'  ^o--" 
-n  of  anxiet;.    *.?Tdo  fnl  "'*'  *'^  '"^'^'^  *«- 

be  music  teacher  at  Saint  Kitt's  and  fn  t       "'"'^  *° 

Tr^'"''^^' "''^ -^ -~-      •   w'VMrxS 

wl' Sd'b^LTrTi't^  Zy^'rr^  ^'^  -'- 
thing  waiting  now."  ^'       ''^'^  ""^  ^-^  some- 


328 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


She  rose   half  reluctantly,  lingering  at  the  window 

I  dont  know  what  Mother  will  say!"  She  ended 

her  hesitation  with  "And  I  don't  eare!"    She  turned 

o    him,    rigid.     "I    '11    have    to    take    the    respon- 

sibihty  of  my  own  life  some  day.     I  might  as  well 

begin  now." 

lie  saw  the  fear  against  which  she  was  fighting. 
?r  *  ,»;«  «''''"d,"  he  said,  pityingly.    "I  'li  help." 
Yes.     She  glanced  back  at  the  window  that  gave 
a  glimpse  of  the  street,  a  glimpse  of  that  city  of  stran- 
gers m  which  their  struggle  would  be  so  unbefriended 

T"  T'J'ir''  '''"''™-    "^*-I*  *"gJ>t«°«  °ne  a  little,' 
does  n't  it?'  ' 

He  answered,  in  the  same  voice,  with  a  faltering 
smile:     It   s  worse  when  you  wake  up  at  night  " 

They  looked  at  each  other,  standing  in  a  silence  that 
gave  ear  to  the  muffled  tumult  of  the'  street  traffic 
rumbling  like  the  menace  of  a  surf.  She  sighed  again.' 
Well,"  she  said.  "I  'n  put  on  my  things  " 
She  left  him.  He  drew  himself  up  slowly  and  stood 
waiting,  his  eyes  alight,  his  whole  face  alight,  with  an 
emotion  of  defiant  hope  and  tenderness.  Here  was 
the  battle;  and  he  was  ready  for  it.  It  was  the  world 
against  him,  for  the  prize  of  all  his  dreams.  He  settled 
his  coat  collar  and  drew  a  long  breath. 

When  he  heard  her  coming  down  the  stairs,  he  step- 
ped out  into  the  hall  and  met  her  confidently  "If 
he  's  not  there  this  afternoon,"  he  said,  "we  '11  be 
sure  to  find  him  in  the  morning." 

But  he  was  there-smoking  an  after-dinner  cigar,  with 


THE  VISIONARY 


329 

uesk  waiting  for  his  stenographer  to  return  frn.n 
luncheon.  He  received  them  with  a  geniaTnod  wT 
out  ris.ng-„ntil  Don  introduced  her  fomally  •  S 
he  took  off  his  hat  and  held  out  his  huee  Zr,Pi.l 
rather  amusedly.  "Sit  down.  S  down  "J.  T 
"What  can  I  do  for  you,  eh?"  *"  '*°'"''  ''^  ««'d- 
Don  brought  her  an  ,„Bce  chair  and  stood  beside  her 
protectingly  while  he  explained  what  Kidder  could  I 
tor  them ;  and  Kidder  listened  with  the  grave  aTr  of  an 
elder  m  a  child's  game.  "Well,"  he  said  "Ipt  ' 
now.    Let  's  see  where  we  're  a    "    He  t '  J  '"' 

Jeets  of  tabulated  repo:.s  flm  his'^desrand  Tnl 
through  them  solemnly.    "Never  been  on  tCstage  bo- 

w  "  m"','!  ^"^  ^°'*^'^''«d  for  her.     "We  're-  Is  it 
^^e^^d  like  to  be  together  in  'The  Rajah's  Ruby,'  if'll 

e.^yo;^r;.-nr^s-o;^--- 

M:!.  a?l  cL- '"' t  loSCaUhe  '°r  ^' 
«n.«  stenographer.  "Here,"  ^^0^  r'^  ^^^ 
for  Miss  Delancey  to  rehearsals  for  'The  Whk. 
Feather.'  Miss  Richardson  here-"  He  r^tL-i^ 
his  ,-houlder  with  his  pen  handle-"ikerf  7"" 
with  the  'Ruby.'    Same  height  ''  ^''  ^^'"'' 

"Well?"     He  returned  to  Don.     "Keenin'  „ 
these  days?    The  'Ruby'  looks  like  an  a^^rson  , ™ 


330 


DON-A-DREAMS 


don't  it?"  His  deslf  telephone  interrupted  him. 
"Yes.  .  .  Yes.  .  .  Right  away.  .  .  Oh,  ten 
minutes.  .  .  Sure."  He  took  up  his  hat  and  his 
cigar  together.  "Talie  Miss  Richardson's  signature. 
That  '11  be  all  right,"  he  put  aside  Don's  thanks. 
"I  '11  be  back  in  an  hour,"  he  said  over  his  shouldi'i- 
to  his  stenographer— and  left  them  to  her. 

She  chewed  a  nonchalant  cud  of  gum  while  Margaret 
signed  her  name  on  the  line  that  was  vacant  for  it. 
And  still  chewing,  she  had  returned  to  her  typewriting, 
indifferent  to  them,  before  they  were  aware  that  their 
business  with  her  was  finished. 
"That  was  easy,"  Don  said,  in  the  elevator. 
Margaret  had  her  thoughts.  She  replied  only:  "I 
don't  think  he  's  a  gentleman,  do  you?" 

"Well,  he  's  been  mighty  kind  to  me.  I  don't  know 
what  I  should  have  done  without  him— and  Walter 
Pittsey.  They  have  all— Everyone  has  been  kind  to 
me." 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  which  he  mis- 
took for  incredulity.  He  tried  to  reply  to  it  by  telling 
her  of  his  first  discouraging  days  in  New  York  and  of 
the  aid  that  had  come  to  end  them ;  and  this  recital  was 
a  revelation  of  character  that  was  not  lost  on  her,  any 
more  than  Kidder's  manner  of  receiving  him  had  been. 
She  said,  with  an  unexpected  smile:  "You  have  n't 
changed  a  bit." 
"Did  you  want  me  to?" 

She  looked  back  at  his  interview  with  Kidder.  "No. 
Not  if  it  makes  people  be  nice  to  you." 

"Well,  all  right  then,"  he  said  gaily.  "I  'm  satis- 
fied if  you  are!" 


THE  VISIONARY  331 

He  was  full  of  hope,  voluble  of  encouragement,  gal- 
ITLT    '  r**"*'^'  '*'*'■■*'"=«  *•>«*  ^"^  ««  winning 

rZl^  f  ""•  .^^"^  ^''*"  ^«  ^P'"'''  "f  himself,  it 
was  only  to  give  her  his  experience  as  an  aid  to  her  in 
making  her  plans.  And  all  this  single-hearted  and  un- 
conscious  devotion  came  appealingly  to  her  in  her  moo,l 
of  loneliness  and  fear  for  herself. 

They  wandered  about  until  she  was  tired,  and  then 
he    00k  her  to  the  galleries  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  art 

IT^^r^'^V  "^'  """''^  "*  °"  Plush-upholstered  seats 
and  talk  of  Europe  and  the  Louvre.    He  confessed  that 
he  had  always  hked  landscapes  with  roads  in  them- 
roads  up  which  you  might  imagine  yourself  walking 
to  a  house  that  just  showed  its  roof  over  a  hiU-or  pic- 
tures of  men  and  women  who  were  saying  something 
which  you  could  guess. 
''But  don't  you  like  the  color?  the  poetry?" 
He  studied  the  row  of  landscapes  before  him.    "Yes 
think  I  do.    But  I  like  them  best  when  there  's  some-' 
thing  to  invite  you  to  get  inside  them  and  explore 
don't  you  know?"  explore, 

''Oh,  you  're  a  Philistine,"  she  teased  him. 
Am  I?  .     .    .    Oh  well,  never  mind;  you  're  not 
«ny  way  "he  said;  and  he  said  it  with  such  an  inno' 
cent  pride  in  her  that  she  could  not  laugh  at  him 

When  It  was  time  for  her  to  return  to  her  boarding- 
house  for  dinner,  she  faced  the  prospect  of  loneline^ 
with  a  reluctance  which  he  was  quick  to  see;  and  they 
went  together  to  a  little  Sixth  Avenue  restaurant  where 


1  ( 


!  5 


332 


D0N-A-DREAM8 


they  at.u  fried  oysters  and  potatoes  with  a  daring  sense 
of  freedom  from  conventionality  and  the  restraint  of 
parents. 

"This  is  better  than  Coulton,"  he  said,  smiling 
across  the  small  tabl'\ 

"Or  teaching  deportment  in  Saint  Kitt's!"  She 
exaggerated  a  shudder.    "Ugh!    What  a  life!" 

The  oysters  were  greasily  cooked;  the  restaurant 
smelled  of  a  rancid  kitchen;  the  table  cloth  was  as 
soiled  as  the  waiter's  linen;  but  if  they  were  sensible 
of  these  drawbacks,  the  fact  was  not  apparent,  lie  was 
too  happy  to  see  anything  but  her ;  and  she,  obviously, 
enjoyed  his  happiness.  lie  kept  his  eyes  on  her  like  a 
courtier,  finding  her  face  even  sweeter  than  when  it 
had  been  more  girlish,  and  dwelling  in  the  unabashed 
friendliness  of  her  smile  without  wishing  it  more 
demure.  He  enjoyed  the  almost  domestic  pleasure  of 
sharing  food  with  her;  and  when  he  recalled  his  old 
vision  of  her  pouring  coffee  at  the  breakfast  table,  he 
blushed  with  a  feeling  of  guilt  in  that  anticipation,  for 
it  seemed  a  treachery  to  her  new  camaraderie. 

To  any  spectator  of  their  dinner,  she  would  have 
appeared  a  merely  pretty  young  woman,  of  a  slight 
and  Puritanic  figure— with  a  suggestion  of  provinciality 
in  her  simple  ruehings  and  her  low  heels — dining 
poorly,  in  a  smelly  restaurant,  with  a  thin,  a  shabby, 
an  amusingly  adoring  young  man  who  might  be  an  ill- 
paid  clerk  and  who  was  certainly  a  stupid  conversa- 
tionalist. The  romance  of  the  situation  was  all  in  their 
own  minds;  as  romance  has  a  way  of  being.  But  he 
felt  that  he  had  won  in  his  first  bout  with  the  world 
that  was  trying  to  separate  her  from  him,  and  this  din- 


THE  VISIONARY  333 

ner  was  to  remain  in  his  history  of  himself  as  wonderful 
as  a  royal  fete,  as  one  of  the  gala  occasions  of  his  life  as 
an  incident  for  poets,  like  a  wedding  day 


IV 

LVv"  V  n^^T"'"/;'  P«''^°™''"««  of  "The  Rajah's 
^^,  .1,°^  '''""^"'  •""'  '»"'''*  thoughts;  and  he 
replied  to  Miss  Morris's  silent  scrutiny  with  the  bare 
announcement  that  Miss  Richardson  was  to  join  the 
niinpany  on  Monday  night.  He  was  unmo^  ed  by  her 
stubborn  insistence  that  he  was  "making  a  mistake." 
He  asked,  cheerfully:  "How?  Why  am  I?" 

She  answered  by  aiiking  whether  ho  had  done  any 
writing  on  his  play;  and  he  had  to  explain  that  his 
quarrel  with  Conroy  had  upset  him,  but  that  now- 
m  his  own  room,  alone  with  his  manuscript -he  would 
be  able  to  give  all  his  time  to  his  ambitions.  The  ex- 
plnnation  did  not  seem  to  satisfy  her,  though  she  did 
not  voice  any  criticism  of  it.  She  asked:  "Does  her 
mother  know  what  she  's  doing?" 

fhZ°Q'^'^\  "^^"  ''  °°*  "^"'"^  '*  "^  "  permanent 
thing.  She  s  only  coming  here  until  she  finds  an  open- 
ing for  her  music. ' '  ^ 

"You  know,  as  well  as  I  do,  that  she  '11  never  find 
an  opening  for  her  music  in  New  York  " 

He  replied  calmly:  "I  know  that  she  can  do  this 
extra  work  until  she  has  time  to  find  something  better 
Jnat   s  all  she  expects." 

Miss  Morris  said  nothing  more,  and  he  left  her  to 


834 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


Jl: 


nceept  the  g.tuat.on  as  be«t  ghe  could.  But  at  the  mat- 
inee  of  the  following  day-which  was  Saturday-he 
made  another  appeal  to  her  to  be  kind  to  Miss  Richard- 
son. She  haa  n  't  a  friend  in  town  but  me-and  you 
.f  you  '11  be  her  friend.  You  know  how  it  ia  to  com": 
to  strange  work  like  this,  without  any  one  to  tell  you 
anything  A  word  or  two  from  you  would  mean  so 
much  to  her.  .  .  She  can't  go  back  home-any  more 
than  you  or  I.    She  has  n't  a  penny  but  what  she  '11 

rher'the-''"*"^''^*''"«-  "  '  ^  '— ^ou  ',1 
•'If  I  do  anything  for  her,"  she  broke  out,  "it  '11 
not  be  for  her  sake.  But  I  think  you  're  making  a  mis- 
take. You  re  doing  wrong.  You  should  have  sent  her 
home  where  she  belongs.  She  's  out  of  her  place  here 
and^neither  you  nor  anyone  else  can  make  her  succeed 

"That  may  be  true,"  he  said  diplomatically,  "but 
It  can  t  hurt  her  to  try-and  it  can't  hurt  us  to  give 
her  what  little  help  we  can.    Can  it  J" 

She  answered  "No,"  but  with  an  evident  reserva- 
tion;  and  what  the  reservation  was,  he  was  to  under- 
stand  after  a  conversation  which  they  had  in  the  lawn- 
party  scene,  that  evening. 

She  said :  "I  've  had  an  offer  of  a  good  part  in  a  new 
play  by  Mr.  Polk.    And  I  'm  goint  to  take  it.    I  want 
you  to  wait  until  you  !    ir  from  me." 
"'Wait'?    I  don't  under— " 

"I  have  some  influence  with  him. "    She  did  not  look     I 
at  him.    "  Jle  is  taking  a  theatre  of  his  own,  to  produce 
his  own  plays,  independently.     There  may  be  some- 


THE  VISrONABT 


335 
thing  for  you.    I  think  I  can  get  something  for  you 
better  than  this  at  least."  *        '^  "~ 

mere?  ""Yn'"'",  'V^  '""  "^^""^  ''"d,"  he  stam- 
'■Don  J..  Sh  'T.'°"  '  W^'-ote-  I_" 
^on  t-  She  caught  herself  up.  "Don't  th«„l, 
.e,  I  mean  not  until  you  ^  whether  I  can  do  U  or 
m>t.  I  want  you  to-to  trust  me-  that  's  «ir  T  I 
you  to  believe  that  I  'l.  do  an^thifglo  he^  y  u   e", 

/"■r.    And  I  want  you-,f  you  hear  anything-if  «„v 
Z^r^.^-'-^  "««'-*  —  toLiev^e  if  u^^i 

WalterTitr"'""^''''"/  '^"*«°''«  '"  «  '««««•  ^om 
Walter    P.ttsey    received    several    days    before-      "I 

ave  heard  a  weird  story,  here,  about  your  friend 

W.^M.  and  a  playwright.    HowissheJ"   Buthiscurf 

nd  he  h«H  rT"  *°  ''^"'°  *°  ^"^'P  about  her- 

ami  he  had  so  replied  to  Pittsey 

He  replied,  now,  to  her:  "I  would  n't  believe  anv 

th.ng  against  you,  if  you  told  me  yourself  "  ^ 

ni.  ?h"*  ""?''■    '''"'  "^^^  '•""°8««  '^'^  '•apidly 
1    1^      .  inclusion  of  their  scene  together      He 

ine  play.       Thank  you,"  she  said.  "No."    And  th.. 
strain  of  emotion  on  her  voice  warned  him  notto  make 

They  parted  in  silence,  not  to  meet  again  that  night 
He  was  sorry  that  he  could  not  overcome  her  hos« l.' 
to  Margaret;  but  since  that  hostility  was  insur- 
able, he  was  glad  that  she  was  leaving  the  comp.^^ 


336 


DON-A-DREAMS 


In  apite  of  hi.  Kratitude  to  her.  he  felt  that  th^r.  , 

»ome,h,„,  not  ,uite  open  and  natur     aSmt  he7. 

TT  ^'"f""*,'"  tho«,  motional  outbumta  whici 

had  unwttmKly  provoked  in  her,  in  the  paHt  had  m, 

h.m    uneaay   concerning   the   unlcnown'^ithB   fr 

which  they  came.     It  wa.  a«  if  Hhe  were  cont'nu 

rjkmK  matche.  in  the  darkne„  with  a  diLoncerti 

«uldenne«,    a,  aho  had  on  the  evening  of  t^eir " 

m..^.nB-an,l  a«  ,„dd.,„,y  ,^         ^       f^^  ^^^^  J 

wUhdrawmg  mto  vhe  darkness  again     She  had  kno, 

hersolf  h  dden  from  him.  She  had  never  told  him  ^ 
Urn,  of  her  past  with  Polk ;  and  she  l,„d  .pokenT„^ 
.lly  now.  of  her  "influence"  with  the  playwrTghr  1 

m   all   matters   concerning   herself,   though   she   ha 

efSn  i"ir  '.""I."""  '"  ""^^  'y  '•>«  ''--i 
oi  ner  kindly  interest  in  his  welfare 

\\  ell.  she  too,  was  leaving  him  now,  he  thought  •  an, 
ha    secession  would  eliminate  another  of  2  ' 
ems.    I  IS  life  was  becoming  more  simple;  it  was  n 
rowing  down  to  his  relations  with  Margare     it  wis  b 
Kinning  to  flow  quietly  in  a  still   .wJ^ T 

s  lences.     Its  influence  possessed  him  with  nn  „„„, 
".ning  contentment.      He  felt.   raTher  tha"  argu:  ' 

that  had  led  mankind  from  barbarity  to  civilLtL 
along  a  progress  of  which  simple  fait'k  had  £' 


THE  VISIONARY  337 

blind  compM,.  He  felt  at  peaco  with  the  world,  at 
pc.a<H.  w,th  the  heavens,  at  peace  with  him«,lf.  £ 
felt  at  peace  even  with  hi«  love-c»ntent  to  give  all  and 
expect  n..th,n«.  Hatinfled  to  be  near  her  «,  that  he  might 
help  her,  wdlmg  to  wait  without  a  word  of  encourage 
j-ont.  «o  certain  of  hi,  goal  that  he  did  not  even  rX 
his  eyes  to  see  how  far  it  was  away 

Ills  little  room  received  him  like  a  home.    He  kin- 
.ll.d  a  Are  of  small  wcH.den  blocks  which  he  had  bought 

"or  r  "l"  ".'"""-'  ''•°'"  '"'""y-"  'he  Italian  ven! 
lor  down  the  street,  and  he  warmed  the  dn-gs  of  his 

of  h.8  bed  hoM.ng  his  cup  on  his  knee,  smiling,  like 
a  camper  m  the  wilderness  who  looks  back,  from  the 
Z:!oLT'  ""  ''"  ''*''""  """^  t-^ledValleyst 

^fV.T  ^''k,'"""''  Ti**"  •'*'■ '"  *•■«  "'oming-to  a  house 

tl^teT?I%T"*'^  °"  ""'"'''  Avenue-unconscious 

■  noL     f  T  ""  '""^'''"  '"  '^^^l*  "gainst  the 

polce  of  organized  religion",  and  he  listened,  like 

ehdd  at  the  theater,  to  the  music  and  the  singing  and 

the  literary  eloquence  of  a  minister  who  flattered  and 

smiled  on  his  congregation.    But  when  Margaret  asked 

im  what  he  had  thought  of  the  sermon,  he  had  to  con 

fess  that  he  had  not  heard  it.    "I  was  thinking  of  the 

;t  n't  you?""  """"'"  "'  "■'•    "'  '"  ^'""^  '  -«•»*' 
"I  '11  not  go  to  that  church  again!" 
"Why  not!" 

snZf"''  ^"''f  .y""  ^y  y"'  "'"thes.     That  was  some 
sort  of  servants'  gaUery  the  usher  put  us  in." 


338 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


He  looked  down  at  himself  guiltily,   "i  suppose  1 6 
need  a  new  pair  of  shoes."  ""Ppose  l « 

«n'7r,?.''  "  "'"^  ''^*'  '^^  "  ""^^  "^e-'coat.  and  a  nei 
sn    of  eloth.s.  and  a  new  necktie  and  a  pair  of  glove, 
"I  can  get  the  hat,  anyway,"  he  said;  and  he  sai, 

XHt  r.  "  .'^■^P'-oPortionate  accent  of  hopefulnes 
that  she  had  to  laugh  at  him.  pc^umes 

"You  are  certainly  an  optimist  1" 

But  when  he  wished  her  to  take  her  midday  mea 

with  h.m  at  has  French  cafe,  she  said:  "No.    I'^d  fe^ 

again  at  half-past  two."  And  she  escaped  into  he 
boa^drng-house  while  he  was  still  laughing  at  her  littl 

He  thought  that  he  had  never  been  happier.    It  was 

heart-easing  friendliness,  such  practical  and  smilin^ 
friendhness,  and  so  dear.  If  it  were  to  continu  all 
his  life  long,  it  would  be  enough 

She  was  even  more  practical  in  the  afternoon.    On 
their  way  to  the  Park,  she  made  him  tell  her  about  hU 

aZthr,''"""^- "'"'''  '"'^  ^^^'^^  --^ «»-  -^S 

about  his  play-writmg  and  his  future  plans.     And 

and\e  h  ?  'rJ°-f  ^  "  "^  ^'''"^'^  ^iss  Morr"! 
and  he  had  sat,  beside  the  water-explaining.  "The 
last  time  I  sat  here  I  did  n't  think  I   'd  ever-" 

Mo'thrrl^^*"^    ^   *"     "^^    "^"^   '^  I  *«" 

doinTt«         ^t  ""■'''  *''"*  '■'''''  '«  -^  P««P««t  of 

slfth  ""f  ^"^   ""'^'''   •>«'«   *»"">   at   home. 

Somethmg  may  turn  up  any  day  now.    And  it  's  just 


THE  VISIONARY 


339 
possible,  you  know,"  he  hinted  reluctantly,  "that  your 

tu  letting  you  make  your  own  plans."  ^ 

«"  ttlpHS'-'^^^^'-^''^^- '-''«'    ^ 

J2dT'^  ''"''  ""  *••«  *•"""«  •^  f«'  a«  *'-  •«  con. 
"I  had  n't  thought  of  that  " 

«nY^Ver -■'  ''''  ''"^  °""  *™^  "•-«*  ^'^^-^ 
"Well,"  she  agreed,  aoceptinr  this  easy  method  of 
po   ponmg  her  worries.    "Now  tell  me  whatT'll  havf 
to  do  meanwhile,  in  'The  Bajah's  Ruby'  " 

Miss  Morris  has  left  the  company  "  he  said     "<ih.' 

St  p^if  '"^-  .^r  '  ''"  ^•""^' °  St  tt  Z  e  man'a! 
ger  to  put  you  in  her  place,  if  I  can.    You  '11  have 

lou  11  see  to-morrow  night. " 
She  nodded,  sunken  back  in  the  arm  of  the  rustic 

wnere  the  fallen  leaves  were  black  in  the  water  She 
h^eten  t '"'  T  ''^  "^^  *''''*  ^'^^  Morrirwo'uJj 
der  y    fragile,    with    her    small    shoulders    and    the 

?  he  r.  °'    'r.  '""^'^    ''^^'^—    '-o- 

m    the    large    meditation    of    her    eves     ««    -..^..i 

away    from    the    sight    of    her,    trembling    with    a 
new  sense  of  the  fearful  and  delicious  privifege  of  be 
mg  the  only  barrier  between  her  and  adve Sy 


340 


DON-A-DBTHAMS 


'I  oai 


nil 


"I  must  find  a  room  at  once,"  she  said, 
pay  ten  dollars  a  week  board  " 

thS  T"^''"^  "  *'"'"  "*  commonplace  to  reply:  ' 
think  there  's  one  vacant  in  the  house  that  I  'm  in 
on  the  floor  below  me.     That  would  be  better  thi 

S  mine\rt"woX'^  ""^  ''"  ^'^^^  ^°''"^^- 
"Heated?" 

"No-o.    I  heat  it." 

of  th?""  ^°"  ''■\P'*y'°S  *°»  "iiieh.    I  was  asking  on 
of  the  women  at  the  boarding-house  " 

"Mw.  MeGahn  said  she  was  giving  it  to  me  for  les 
than  she  would  to  anyone  else  " 

.fjJJ^at  had  better  come  and  look  after  you  a  little.'^ 

She  laughed.    "What  is  Mrs.  McGahn  like?" 
He  described  the  house  and  its  mistress,  explained 
the  arrangements  he  had  made  for  his  meals  and  tsH 

we«  fl^elort^  ^^-^  "-•^  -''"^  ^^^^'^^^  S^ 

Zl  and  h!       .T  T""'''  "*  "^^'''^  '•«'•  ™der  his 
roof,  and  he  smded  and  smiled.  When  she  agreed  to 
eall  on  Mrs.  McOahn  with  him  that  evening,  to^k 
he  vacant  room,  he  accepted  the  future  ^  ab S 
thmg  aecoznplmhed.    "Then  when  you  're  all  settled  " 
he  sa:d,  "we  can  get  to  work  in  real  earnest  and  t 
what  we  can  find  for  you.    It  's  always  better  to  wait 
-not  to  accept  the  first  thing  that  offers.     MakTa  ' 
choice  and  take  the  best." 

wi^offtr-"^™'  "'  ""^^  «^  I  -d  been  besieged 


if 


THE  VISIONARY  341 

"WeU,  perhaps  you  wUl  be." 
••Yes!  Per-b^psl"  She  stood  up,  settling  her  jacket 
at  Uie  waast  with  spread  hands,  arms  akimbo    and 

Sdro/rri  "  "k*^"*^  '"  ^'''^  littletminine 
attitude  of  the  boudoir,  that  it  came  to  him  as  a  mark 

ritd~ttii:'  '""'^'i" ''  ^''"•'''  *^" "«' 

"Sha'n'tlL         ""'  """"  ^"^'"8  "«'•  «"PPe"-" 
. .  r"*  °  *  "'^  have  supper  together  f  " 

JMo.    Yon  must  economize.    Mine  is  oaiH  fnr  ;„  .^ 

vance.    You  may  call  for  me  at  seven.^'  ^" 

Mrs.  McGahn  received  them  in  a  parlor  full  „f  all  the 
old  furniture  and  all  the  accumulated  bric-a-brac  of 
th.rty  years  of  housekeeping.    She  received  them  with 

Xin  r^kiTwi:  "I'don^^rr  "^r  ■•- 

urunarried  women,"  she  said,^.^*!!':^:;^ 

M;2n^^i^^^S^:;r^.-o^o-ed.    -Mrs. 

Margaret  shook  hands  with  her  ir,  .  „ 
evidently  had  some  effect.    She  ZyTJ  Sgfl' 

""  «Mis?v*^';'"*  ^"^  ^-^  ^tiirunifiei  '"■" 

cxplSed^'sh'^r   n/*"'^y'°«  »-•«  here,"  Don 
explained.     She  does  n't  wish  to  board  any  longr-r     I 

She  asked  Margaret:  "Where  're  yer-yer  folks?" 
My  mo  her  has  gone  back  to  Canada     We  hale 
b«n  boardmg.     I  thought  this  would  be  cheaper'' 
hhe  smiled,  amused.  i-ueaper. 


!  * 
■t 


***  DON-A-DBEAMS 

"Well  "  Mrs.  McGahn  defended  herself,  "I  ca 
see  yuh  -re  decent,  but  I  Ve  got  to  be  carefu  an'  Z 
eomm'  in  on  me  this  way-  Are  v'  .ii    i  . 

York?"  ^         ^'"""^  '"  ^^ 

''Yes  Mr.  Gregg  is  the  only  friend  I  have  here  W 
used  to  know  each  other  at  home."  "''^  "«'«•  ^ 

"How  old  are  yuhj" 
"Nearly  twenty." 

;;0h  no,"  the  girl  laughed.    "Not  all  of  us  " 

Have  yuh  been  long  in  N'  York?" 
"Just  a  few  days." 

"Aw»"     She  turned  to  Don,  twinkling.  "Yuh   're 
eiigaged,  are  yuh  f"  «•      lun    re 

"0?nfir,"'''M'  "^^  *'''°  ''°"^^'^  *'•'"«'=«  hastily- 
un  no,  no!  '—blushing  scarlet 

n  ;i,„         u  .r  "  P*""  °    ^''^'-     Come  along,  girl 
I   II  show  yuh  the  room."  "b.  K""'. 

did"?„r/n°  ""^.^"'"'^  ''^  ^^  ^"P  "^  the  tongue  that  h. 
aid  not  follow  them,  and  thev  kent  hi™  ,    •*• 

unconscionably  long 'time  foXt'  et™     bTwh:: 

they  came  Mrs.  McGahn  was  blarneying  a'ndmotht 

engaged  the  room.     She  and  Don  had  to  refuse  an 
mvitation  to  sit  in  the  parlor  and  "chat  a  whL  ' 

y^^   n  be  wantin'  T  uJl^Z^  tl^i  cheTwt^ 
he   8  home  at  all,  an'  I  'U  „ot  butt  in  meself.    Don't 


THE  VISIONARY  343 

be  backward  about  nsin'  it.    It  won't  be  the  flret  loUy- 
S"     "  y»h  "leed  n't  be  a  bit  afeard  0' 

After  a  self-eonscious  silence  that  carried  them  to 
the  street  comer,  they  both,  suddenly,  laughed-an 
apologetic  laugh  that  pretended  to  accept  Mrs.  Mc- 
Uahn  s  uwinuations  as  absurd. 


Life  in  New  York  had  seemed  to  Don  a  sort  of  multi- 
tudinous obscurity  in  which  individuals  were  merely 
atoms  of  a  homogeneous  mass,  living,  thinking  and 

h^7^1L^Tl°'  '^°'^^'  <««3  it  had  seemed  to 
him  that  death,  there,  would  be  worse  than  death  at  sea. 
He  had  found  himself  walking  the  streets  in  the  midst 
of  activities  m  which  he  had  no  part,  like  a  ghost;  and 
he  had  been  as  unregarded  as  if  he  had  been  indeed 
mvisible.  But  now,  on  this  memorable  Monday,  he  was 
to  begm  acquiring  a  new  point  of  view;  he  was  to  find 
that  what  had  been  a  desert  to  one  person  could  be  an 
Eden  for  two,  he  was  to  learn  that  the  indifference  of 
the^ity  could  be  as  happy  as  the  indifference  of  the 

He  went  with  a  swinging  stride,  from  Mrs.  McGahn's 
doorway  up  the  cold  November  streets,  through  an  iron 
ramble  of  cars  and  wagons,  as  much  alone  with  his 
thoughts  as  if  he  were  walking  on  the  seashore  beside  the 
continual  and  meaningless  rush  and  thunder  of  waves 


344 


DON-A-DREAMS 


He  went  with  Margaret  to  hire  a  cart  for  the  moving , 
her  trunks  to  interview  Kidder  about  getting  her  Mi 
Morns  s  place  in  the  background  of  the  "The  Rajah 
Ruby/  and  to  see  Mrs.  Connors  at  the  "  Classic  "  al^t 
the  costume  for  the  part,  and  in  the  street-cars,  as  o 
the  sidewalks  they  seemed  shut  in  together  by  the  bus 
unconcern  of  the  eity-as  they  had  been  once  by  th 

tion  of  the  r  common  interests.  Even  when  she  forcei 
bua  mto  a  "gents'  furnishing  store"  and  helped  him 
hoose  a  new  hat,  the  clJrk  remained  studiously  indif 
feren  to  her  coquettish  participation  in  the  purchase 
And  they  ate  luncheon,  in  a  crowded  "dairy  restaur- 
ant      without  so  much  as  meeting  a  curious  glance 

Two  checks,"  she  directed  the  waitress.     He  at- 
tempted  to  protest  that  it  was  his  "treat,"  and  that 

saTd    '?r  ''"""  '"  '=''"^*"  °"  ^'^  ^''-'^-     Sh! 
said.     I   11  never  come  with  you  again  unless  you  lot 

Z^Zr  T  :T"-  "^  ^"^  "'^^  ''«™«1'  t°  leave 
her  that  mark  of  her  independence  withou  any  fur- 

o  M*""  mTu'  f"''  '•""  """^•^•^  '"'"'  *°  <'«'=«rt  her  back 
to  Mrs.  McGahn's,  where  she  wished  to  spend  the  after- 
noon  writing  letters  and  arranging  her  room. 
He  employed  a  vacant  hour  by  strolling  up   the 

itrrTr.  ".  ""  ^'''^^'  """^  ^«  '"""^^  there  a  bitter 
ktter  from  his  aunt,  upbraiding  him  for  deserting  Con- 
roy  after  ha^ng,  in  the  first  place,  induced  the  boy  to 
run  away  to  New  York.  He  accepted  her  injustice  with 
a  cal  oused  insensibility.  A  note  from  his  uncle  asked  I 
him  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  prodigal,  at  least;  and  h» 
tried  to  satisfy  the  obligation  by  asking  Pittsey  how 
Conroy  was  getting  on.  ' 


THE  VISIONAEY  345 

see'mui*  ^f7'"  ^J",'"^  ""'''■''"^  laconically.  "Don't 

_  IIow  wil  you  get  the  housework  donej" 

hn,.~\      !  *""'"'  "  ''°""»'  to  come  in  for  three 
J™  day,  to  straighten  up  the  roo„s  and  eook  us  0" 

Where  did  he  find  her  ? " 
^^-Searchme.     I  don't  know.     I  have  n't  seen  her 

eeZli'e'p^a"'''  "'°''-'"'-  '  "'"'«  ^-  ^^ve  sue- 
^^^^Thanks.     I    '11  surely  have  my  hands  full.     So 

histoid  V^^^Z'^  *"  ^''  ^'"'''''  8'''^  that  he  was  free  of 
0  the  s  "'  "*'  ''"•*'°^'  ^''''  J''*  f««t  on  the  fender 
of  the  stove  so  occupied  with  his  thoughts  of  the lirl 
below  him  that  he  did  not  think  to  light  a  fire     Zu 

down  on  his  bed,  covered  himself  with*.  "^ 

f„ii      1  ^"'«cu  uiiuseii  with  his  overcoat  nnH 

tell  asleep  to  dream  of  rm,u,.«      tt         "»<=r(.uat,  and 

thedarknLbyrk:LS::,i7  -'^-'^  ^^ 

Hurry!    Hurry!"  she  oried.    "We  '11  be  late!" 

They  arrived  in  time-thanks  to  the  laughing  haste 
hey  made  m  the  restaurant  and  on  the  street-but  t 

found  two  new  supers  in  the  dressing-room  he  S  to 
XU  th.  T.*:  :r^  ""''"  ""-^  he'wasTept  so  bu  ; 


346 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


W  -' 


fo-  the  stage,  pressing  upon  his  upper  lip  his  fab 
moustache,  of  which  the  gum  had  not  vet  dried 

It  followc-cl  that  he  did  not  see  her  until  the  curtail 
had  n.en  on  the  act.  He  lifted  his  hat  as  he  ap 
proached  her  m  the  promenade,  but  she  gave  him  . 
frightened  glance  and  tried  to  pass  him  without  speak 
mg,  and  when  he  said  "Don't  you  know  me?"  con- 
fronting her  smilingly,  she  stepped  back  from  him  with 
a  start  of  bewilderment,  bumping  into  the  two  girls  wh.. 
were  behind  her.    He  saved  the  situation  by  stepping  be- 

ZZ  "w*"?^  '^'  '"''^''°'='-  "^"  "e''*'"  he  whis. 
pered.  Walk  across  the  way  you  were  going.  Did  n  't 
you  know  me?" 

When  he  had  brought  her  safely  to  the  wings,  she 
stammered  indignantly:  "I-I  thought  it  was  ^^ther 
of  those—  One  of  those  men  spoke  to  me  " 
"Who?    Where?" 

"Over  on  the  other  side."     She  pointed  him  out- 
and  Don  recognized  him  as  an  unwholesome-looking 
youth  named  Cousin,  whom  the  other  supers  had  nick- 
named  "Delicate  Pete." 
"What  did  he  say?" 

"Something  about  it  being  a  fine  day  frr  a  walk  " 
Don  laughed.    "Perhaps  he  thought  he  knew  yon  " 
Well,     she  said,  with  a  half-humorous  exaspera- 
tion,   "I  don't  see  how  he  could.    I  should  n't  know 
myself.    I  feel  like  a  silly,  plastered  up  this  way     I 
can  hardly  see !"  Her  lashes  were  thick  with  cosmetiqu. 
And  you !    You  're  the  color  of  a  wooden  Indian-thc 
ones  they  have  in  front  of  cigar  stores.    I  should  think 
you  d  feel  per/ec%  absurd." 


THE  VISIONARY 


347 

■ft  «r™K„-;;~  *';• ""  -'" "-" ■ 

■•£«  irn-js;. -,,rt.'-- 

KhMtlywithitI"  You  look  worse  than 

»tand  up  to  th;  situadoi:  ^I'^J.  '"^'^  "";">'*  '» 
'"ra  •     •    .    to  cross  "  •    •     •    it    s  our 

DoToutL't.o::^/,;,^^*'' " ""  ^"-^  '^^"' 

^e,„  "''y'"'^  «  the  audience  might  recognize 

"I  '11  walk  on  that  side." 

have  to  do  in  the  ne.t t^ney'^  ""■      ^'''«*  ^°  ^ 

Are  n't  you  going  to  like  it?"    he  a.«ikp,I  in       v. 
disappointed  tone  that  she  wpl  ed    "I  SV  "^ 

J^niatte.  Whether  I  like  it  o^o't.    l' -n™  J  ^X! 

eieraL*X»r;ndr'  ''-^.  ^"  «"--'  ^"n 

iar  surroundin^wTh  TrUit   Tta  ^  ' V"'^""'- 
does  n't  even  fit  mo  "e>,„    '"^'*    ."'^taste.       My  gown 

'« .1..  i:r.s  r  "r-;x  "°.t,r  ™; 

An^    1.      f  °  t  a  bit  like  what  I  thought  it  would  Hp  " 
A.d  When  he  tried  to  turn  the  conversation  bTwarntg 


3*8  DON-A-DBEAMS 

"L1„!^  r'^M  '  ""•'  •■"  Para«.l-th«t  Mi«  Morr 
itfn  thin"™™     i"  "'t^the  .tage  manager  for  ctehi. 

"Why!" 

"Becauw  Ae  waa  n't  very  nice,  if  ghe  was.  In  th 
dr««,ng  room-  Well,  they  are  n't  ve^r  nice,  thcwa 
they  talk-some  of  them."  .■-"*- wa, 

bl7  '"lt"r  rV°°\'"*'  "'"  ""  «P«'°«i«d  hun, 
fin^'  J-    "'^  ^'""  *  "^"'^  "«"'  y°»  know-till  w. 

find  something  better.     Besides  some  of  them  I   'v 
me     are   not   like   that.     Those    that   are   graduati 
of  the  dramatc  sehools-  I  'U  introduce  you  to  som 
of   hem.    I  think  you  '11  find  them  better.'' 
Well." 

He  piloted  her  through  the  rush  to  the  jeweler's  win- 
dow when  the  alarm  was  given  inside  the  shop   In" 
after  the  curtain  had  fallen,  he  saw  her  safely  o;  he 
way  down  to  her  dressing-room  again 

In  the  scenes  that  followed  he  watched  her  across  the 
»tage,  and  tned  to  smile  encouragingly  when  he  caugh 
her  eye  She  seemed  to  be  getting  on  better,  she  had 
cvidentbr  struck  up  an  acquaintance  with  a  ''mS 
Adara  Doran."  whom  Don  had  found  to  be-in  spite 
of  her  name-quite  untheatrical  and  rather  pleasant 
He  began  to  feel  more  hopeful.    Perhaps,  as  she  became 

or!2'1  ^^I'^^f-^"''^'  ^"^  setting  out  the  last  prop- 
erties for  the  lawn-party  scene,  he  picked  his  wav 
through  the  crowd  of  waiting  supers,  in  search  of  Zr, 


THE  ViarONABY  349 

srether.  Am  he  cro«««l  Lt  ,  f  ""^^  "^"^  '°  "'  to- 
that  «do  of  the  ,^  to  ih  H*'r  '""'-'^P'  »"  "«'■' 
'h«  women's  drLinTrolrh  ""  T"'-^  «"*•"•  ''•°'» 
coming  in  the ^pSX^/T''  "^f  IT  ^"*«" 
was  a  sort  of  defiant  imn!,  •        "°*'''*J-    There 

KavehiminrspoLe  C^  '^'^"'''''•'"  '^^  """"'  ^"""" 
he  turned  into^he  wi'  *  aV,  """*  "°"""^  "'  '"  «""" 
saret  stan.ling  to  m  et^'h"'^;:''""'  ""'"""'^  "°  *'"" 
»till  at  bay.  The  SlvZ  "" /"""d*  "f  hoi,,.- 
with  blood  at  sight  of  hL'^«r*'  "^  *"'  ^'""'  «""<'-'l 
She  blinked  ^lyellrS^^'T''-  ""^h.-" 
something  awful  to  me. ■•^'  ""*""'"'•     ""«  "aid 

"The  same  one  J    Cousin  »    ti,.* 
scarcely  waited  for  her  f" ebl    45..'^,  T'"    "^ 
lated  disappointments  of  ?».!         ■'      ^"  the  aceumu- 

Jim  in  a  Ze.  hT,:^^' ^Zi^T,  '"'''''''  '" 
hands  clenched.    He  «.w  p      ■  **  ^"P^*"-  his 

bellows,  his  back  f„mTd  ThToth""'""  '^""^  '''^ 
tively,  staring  at  the™  rath  In  .  ^"'^'^  '"""n"- 
Cousin  by  th'e  co llar.Trked  hfm"?  '^''^'  "^  '"'"«''* 
him  a  blow  in  the  fa  J  fh  "'"'"^'  '"'''  «f"ck 

blindly;  and  Don  st  uk  hirtl""  *'""  "^  '''«  ''™'' 
closed  fist,  on  the  mouth  „ I-  -  '  *""*''  ^"''  ^^ 
heatof  an^r  that  made  hi™        f  '''  '°  "  ^'"'^ 

ently  as  d^ibera  te^  If  2  .  f't'^''**''  "-J  "PPa"- 
eold  blood.     Then  be  tl^lT"'''''  "'"'  ''""^  '" 

^^"ttttin-°--5r^^^^^^^^ 

HewasZst^r^;:--;- 


350 


DON-A-DREAMS 


ruHhed  h.ni  off  to  the  «tai«  and  shoved  him  down  w 
a  force  that  would  have  thn,wn  him  headlong  ifheh 
not  Huved  hu„«,.,f  by  catching  the  handrail.  The  mj^ 
K«r  follow..,!  h,m  with  Cousin,  who  w-  bleed  ng  Tt 
nose  and  mouth.     "You   're  both  di«har^S^*  S, 

Don  hung  up  his  hat  and  coat.  "I  'li  have  to  wait 
ho  sa,d.    "I  look  after  the  costumes  fol  rLde  ' 

The  s  age  manager,  with  an  angry  oath  by  way  i 
dismissal,  turned  and  went  back  to  his  work     It  » 

tt\°l  "'"''""'"'  ''''"'"  Weedinlirolhe  ta! 
b„«.^that  brought  Don  to  a  sense  of  what  id  haj 

^™.^ft£2t=iS^S 

he  had  moved  had  imprinted  itself  on  his  vS  mem 
cry  as  c^arly  as  if  he  had  seen  it  with  IIZ  Zl 
tion  of  an  unmoved  spectator.    Now,  all  those  sensa 
tions-Cousin's  impudent  smile,  the  s  ght  of  Mar3' 

n  front  of  h.m  the  crackle  of  Cousin's  starched  collar 
m  the  grasp  of  his  hand,  the  blind  movement  of  the 
super's  arms  guarding  his  eyes  while  he  lokld  w  I 

brutally  on  hs  bleeding  lips-the  sudden  roughness 

hat  had  seized  Don  himself  from  behind  and  wK 

him  away  dizzily  and  thrown  him  at  the  stairT  down 


i 


THE  VISIONARY 


351 


which  he  stumbletl-flli  n.,. 

t"n«  came  back  on  bH  T  Tr"""'"  ""  *"««  Pi« 

which  should  rvAccornn'^fr    *'""    ""^    «"«"       ■ 

iiii,     ii„     /        ««ciiin((  poufnancy,  vivid  «r , , 
K.rHpiratlnnl!:"!!':.'''''  I'"'"'  '°  "is  hands    „' 


•   t- 

i   .11 


'■I"'     «hll 


.hefaintne»f/;:rtit        "'«'"'''' ^•'"'^ 
What  would  Margaret  »av»     wi.  . 

-y'     Where  wou.dTeCwork  y""*!!:""''   '^"'"" 
passed  from  him  like  the  fi.m„.  Tr  ""•""■  ''"' 

-tting  with  these  questions  Tnth     T'  ''"'  '^'"  "'•" 
which  he  had  PuIierdor;n"  imL^'  "'  '''■'  --" 

^^rht'tj^tr-rtireii''  "^'  -^  ^^  '•-^ 

;rom  the  room  in  l^T,  Z^,  "1.^77  r'""^ 
"hoc   with   which  he  hJ    K  ^^  '""'""l  at  the 

f"ousin  had  dropped  it     IT."/!™"'''   '^'"^  ^"^^ 
1-uise,  and  rubbedk  Li     ''"*  '"  '"'"'^  "P  *°  ^he 

-ound  him  With  quelr  I     shtkt  ^  rr''" 

-H..t.  .enhert:::irtf:^,j-f--'e^ 
;irrc.;tmrrh:;^r  ^  "^--'^ 

-in  the  dre»V;oorwh3r  ";e\T    *""  ^"" 
Wieal  to  .turn  to  the  sta^^rwheT Sh^" 


352 


DON-A-DREAMS 


seen  the  last  of  the  supers'  costumes  on  the  hooks  th 
room  deserted,  and  the  lights  out-lingering  over  hi 
duties  as  if  he  thought  in  that  way  to  postpone  the  fac 
of  his  dismiasal-he  met  her  at  the  stage  entrance  witi 
such  a  look  of  guilt  and  apology  and  broken  appea 
against  her  blame  that  it  went  to  her  heart  like  th 
sight  of  tears.  "Oh  Don,"  she  cried,  "why,  why  dii 
you  bother  with  me  ?  Why  did  n  't  yon  let  me  go  home ' 
I— I   ve  only  made  trouble.    I—" 

'Wait,"  he  said,  hurrying  her  out  to  the  refuge  ol 
he  darker  street.  "Don't.  .  .  It  's  nothing. 
We  're  all  right." 

She  took  his  arm,  clinging  to  him  as  they  walked 
neither  of  them  paying  any  attention  to  the  direction 
in  which  they  were  going,  "You  should  n't  have  done 
It.    You  should  have  let  me  go." 

"No,  no.  It  is  n't  that.  It  's  all  right.  I  '11  find 
something  else  with  Kidder.  I  did  n't  know.  I  did  n't 
understand  how  it  would  all  seem  to  you.  Miss  Morris 
-I  should  have  known  better  than  try  to-to  associate 
you  with  those  cads.    Miss  Morris  warned  me." 

"Ah!"  she  sobbed,  "what  use  am  It  What  is  there 
that  I  can  do  if  I  can 't  do  even  this  ?  I  was  ungrateful 
I  said  thmgs  to  hurt  you.  I  did  n't  even  try  to  help 
you  by  being  cheerful,  by  accepting  what  you  got  for 
me. 

"Don't,"  he  pleaded.  "You-" 

She  shook  his  arm,  almost  angrily.  "I  did!  I  be- 
haved shamefully.  And  any  other  girl,  instead  of 
appealing  to  you,  would  have  slapped  his  face  for  himi 
The  pig!    What  did  you  do  to  himt" 


THE  VISIONARY 

•    two  or  three  times 


353 


"I  struck  him 
I  in  the  face. ' ' 

'■And  they  discharged  youf" 

l-.f  CSSJ: ----«--.  0.  the 

I  "Yon  '11  be^birtnfi  f      ^^"^'  '"  ^°^^'''  spirit: 
jyouj"  '  '"  ^""^  ^'"«*''i°g  el«e  to  do,  won't 

fe:r:;iaS^^ -;--'-" 

"im.     She  has  knor^'X^Z:  "^Tt"''" 
I  "Bht.   It  's  not  <Aa<.    It  ^yoJ"?''  *™^-    I  '"  be  «" 

"W"  ttart     urtr"""'  '^  ""^'•••'^  •'etter." 

yousomethTng;  olwl     "r™:.™''™'"^  ^""^  ^"'^ 
"W>,„  J  ,  •^~"o*  ""  the  stage,  I  mean  " 

-.vo«  're  an  that  made  life  worth  m^i'       ''°"  "' 

-ity  of  his  beliefTher  It  wX       "'*',  ^'^  "'"- 

mined  loyalty  at  onJT         ,    I      ""'"^  °'  «  'leter- 

^     '"^""y- <»' °°««^  «"  proud  of  her  and  so  humble 


354 


DON-A-DREAMS 


in  Its  pride,  that  it  might  have  made  a  queen  wort 

of  her  throne.    She  looked  out,  with  wet  eyes,  on  t 

street  of  theater  crowds  which  had  suddenly,  at  1 

turn  of  a  corner,  confronted  them  with  its  hansom  ca 

and  its  cafe  lights  and  its  midnight  gaiety;  and  she  f 

herself  uplifted  above  it,  beside  him,  in  the  isolati 

of  a  companionship  so  intensely  realized  that  for  a  1 

wildering  moment  he  seemed  not  a  separate  person  b 

apart  of  her.  Then  she  drooped  her  head,  like  a  womi 

returning  from  an  altar  rail  where  she  has  receivi 

the  eueharist;  for  she  had  indeed,  in  that  moment,  pa 

taken  of  the  sacrament  of  love,  iind  she  felt  her  emotic 

glowing   through   her   like   a   holy   spirit.     In   thi 

moment  the   great   miracle   of  the  young  heart   hii 

wrought  its  almost  divine  change  in  her.     Prom  thi 

moment,  she  was  no  longer  a  soul  free  in  the  miili 

of  its  fellows ;  she  had  surrendered  herself  to  the  nee 

of  the  man  beside  her,  and,  through  him,  to  the  grea 

fraternity  of  human  suffering  and  the  office  of  bearin, 

into  the  still  unseeded  future  the  wonder  and  agony  o 

human  life. 

He  felt  the  quivering  of  her  hand  on  his  arm.    "Ap 
you  cold  J" 
"No,"  she  said  gently.    "Don't  worry— about  mi 

She  accompanied  him,  thereafter,  in  a  silence  whicli 
gave  him  no  hint  of  her  thoughts ;  and  supposing  that  slit 
was  silent  because  she  was  despondent,  he  tried  to  encour- 
age her  with  his  usual  assurances  that  everything  would 
"come  out  right,"  that  they  would  begin  their  .am  i 
paign  "really"  in  the  morning,  that  he  had  done  wrom' 


THE  VISIONARY 


355 

better.     She  had  not  thK  ""*      ^°'  sofflething 

e-ava^ant^rtirr,::  L^;:"!  "'  '/? 
understand  that  he  wa«  talkingto  fe'  1^-  """  '^ 
courage;  but  she  said  at  last-  "Y»  ^  .^  '"*  °'^'' 
riRht,  of  couree     TV,nl  Y««.  yes.    It  will  be  all 

night     WeTbe^^Llr"^  "'"'"*  "  «"^  """^  ^o- 
7.V       .  ^     "**''  "•  the  morninif " 

tin,;!,;"    "  ""*  ^'"""-^  «f  ^oing  homeT"  he  a«ked 
■■No,"  she  said.  "I  -Jl  stay-with  you  " 

"s,  for  example-  she  i^  ™.h    /•    7  ^'™  **"'" 

th-  most  suc^fuid™^' •"""*•  '*'*  '•'»*  "* 
had  -ctuallyTl  ^t^Xe^^r"-:'  "^  ^ 
-y,  t.Uci«^  a  ^flr  position  on  ■  w1^'  u,  K^"  '^^'- 

trust.^  *"  •  fc-*  Pl«e  amoog  ^e  m^^.„  oTZ 

Their  street— when  they  tnrnerf  i..    ^ 
'h.   houses  rUrk     Th.   "/  *"  t-was  emptr, 

uuses  aark.    Th^  »rty  •eemed  to  W  Mi«»«„„  ; 
"'"*-nse  contempt  „f  jb^i^  -if  .J^JT  ^^^   °  "^ 
«.u^d  small  andimpZZt^fT^:  "^  ^  ^""^ 
my,  t«e  u««t  ^  aLf,^ '    the^,„^  „,  ,  ^j^. 
silenc.  r^iv«|  rt^iiTT^      "'  mr,>og^^abl.  that 


■•fvnit^Pt^' 


I' 

w 
If 


356 


DON-A-DEEAMS 


said,  at  their  door:  <'You  must  get  a  good  night's  re« 

now     Don  t  worry.     Don't  think  of  it  any  more  tc 

nignt.    Promise  me,  will  you?" 
He  promised  her.     They  tip-toed  upstairs  to  thei 

rooms,  careful  not  to  awaken  the  household.  The' 
pxehanged  a  whispered  good-night  in  the  haU.  He  li' 
h.s  lamp,  locked  his  door,  and  sat  down  on  the  side  ol 
h.s  b«l,  exhausted,  all  his  bravado  gone  from  him,  con- 
fronting  doggedly  the  renewal  of  a  struggle  in  which 
lie  had  been  beaten  down  to  defeat  after  defeat. 


VI 

"Ton  should  have  waited, "  Kidder  said  irritably.  "Ton 
should  have  waited  till  you  had  him  outside.  This  sort 
ft  thing  hurts  me  a  whole  lot  with  the  managers  you 
understand.  They  've  been  raking  me  on  the  'phone 
tor  It  this  morning,  and  I  don't  like  it.  I  can't  afford 
to  send  up  supers  that  scrap  behind  the  scenes  You 
ought  've  known  better." 
"I  did  it  without  thinking." 

' '  You  ought  n  't  to  do  things  without  thinking  The 
stage  s  no  place  for  anybody  that  does  things  without 
thinking.  And  it  's  no  place  for  a  girl  that  can't  take 
'■are  of  herself  without  starting  a  row  like  that  This  i 
sort  of  thing  makes  a  lot  of  trouble  for  me  Thev 
jump  on  me.  They  take  it  out  of  me.  I  don't  like  it ' 
It  was  evident  that  he  did  not  like  it.  It  was  evident 
also  that  he  intended  to  make  Don  suffer  for  the  eriti- 


THE  VISIONARY  357 

eism.  which  he  himself  had  borne.  "I  '^  sorry  -  Don 
said,  miserably. 

''You  should  n't  have  done  it.    I  had  a  lot  of  con- 
fidence in  you.    I  gave  you  one  of  the  best  things  I  ha^ 

ShZd'h"  "  "  '"'  ^"'^  ^"^  What-'s-her-namc  too 
Shoved  her  ,n  over  another  girl.  A„,i  that  's  a  thin-- 
stage  managers  don't  like,  either-having  their  com- 
pany broken  up  that  way.  It  leaves  me  open  to  a  lot  of 
hot  roastmg-the  whole  business." 
''I  'm  sorry.    If  you  '11  give  me  another  chance-" 

have  nrgot  S"    '""   "'"''''''  "'^'^""^   ''"^  ''^'-     ^ 
"Have  n't  you  anything!" 

Kidder  hesitated,  swung  around  in  his  swivel  chair 
and  began  to  look  over  his  typewritten  lists.     Z 
waited    as  shamefacedly  as  a  schoolboy  who  has  been 
ectured  before  a  whole  classroom-for  Kidder's  non' 
chalant  stenographer  had  been  rustling  papers  at  tl... 
other  side  of  the  office.    The  telephone  ra'nf  and  K  J 
der  left  Don's  fate  in  the  scales  while  he  bnsid  his  Jf  • 
w.tm  more  important  affairs.    When  he  had  hung  up 
he     receiver,"  he  took  another  glance  at  his  lists,  and 
said,  without  turnmg  around:  "No.     I  have  n't  anv- 
thing.     I    „>  filled  up.     I  may  have  an  opening  next 
week,  in  'Appomattox'-I  don't  know.     It  '11  only  be 
fifty  cents  a  night,  anyhow.    I  can  get  lots  of  hobos  for 
these  war  plays.    That  's  all  I  've  got  " 

Uon  to  take  himself  out  of  the  office 

Fifty  cents  a  night!    That  would  be,  with  two  mat- 
mees,  four  dollars  a  week.    He  was  paying  two  dollars 


€>ik'iiK*ifS¥Vi:-M  -:iS?^ 


358 


DON-A-DSEAMS 


and  fifty  cents  for  his  room.    The  dollar  and  a  hal 
remammg  would  scarcely  pay  his  ear  fa««!        "  *"' 

When  he  remembered  Miss  Morris  Hp  «nt    T       • 

":s  St  rrrr '"""■•«" '- = 

bv  th„  K  ^°''' '"'  '"'*  *"t«d  ''«*n  over  his  eyes 

by  the  br„,se  on  the  back  of  his  head,  swallowing  dX 
He  came    breathless,  to  the  steps  of  Mrs    KahS 

mm.       She  mn  t  here,"  the  woman  said,  and  shut  him 

He  found  himself,  instantaneously,  ealm.     He  was 
hke  a  man  m  quicksand,  who  finds    hat  his  pa^ic  i 
Plungmg  him  deeper,  and  who  stiffens  into  rStv 

rigni,      be  told  himself.     "These  thin™  i,. <• 

course.  We  must  wait.  When  I '^^"1^'^!: 
he  '11  not  be  so  bad-tempered.  It  •«  a  matter  owS 
a  few  days^    I  can  write  to  Miss  Morris.    I  carS 

hoT,;  .  T  *'''  *"  ""^  ^"e""^^  for  two  or  tL. 
hours  yet.    I  must  think  of  something  to  tell  ht'r  " 

and  tJ''  "'  ''""^  "'  '*  ^^  •"">  ^''^  ™nning  a  race- 
and  the  worry  and  excitement  had  given  him  a  dZ 
g.ng  ache  m  the  small  of  his  back.    He  foun"  himse  f 

ank^fsTn,""-,-  ''•^  •'""""-^  '^'^  «^^*  -- 
way  JudSed  '"\P°<='"^t«'  «°d  went  down  Broad- 

way  huddled   in  on  himself  against  the  wind.     He 


THE  VISIONARY 


359 
thought  of  the  aid  he  had  once  received  from  his  aunt 
-and  he  remembered  her  last  letter.  H^Lew  Zl 
hw  uncle,  appealed  to,  would  advise  him  7      ! 

turn  against  him  because';;^       '"r^S: 

^aTirhimSt/:rt-r.-jr- 

unable^to  help  himself.    And  M  ^^S  w"j  dTe^Sir^ 

now,"hetoWhimse;     ^At  t>.  T  "'  ""P"''*'-     "^"^ 
thinL.  ^o  ""nselt.      At  this  time  yesterday  every- 

thing  was  going  as  well  as  possible    \h.  Jl         T 

h„.  A  ■         '°°'''°g  forward  to  a  winter  with 

w.-re  the  day  you  were  starting  for  New  YorlcorT 
Jay  you  met  Pittsey  on  Sixth' Avenu  Y  J Val  n^ 
EuTopir  '^°"-  -^  -^.   then.     And   sh^  w'/in 

But  the  situation  was  not  to  be  talked  down     There 
remained  the  facts  that  he  had  used  up  all  his  sa Jin^ 


I 


860 


DON-A-DKEAMS 


that  his  work  for  Kidder  would  not  pay  his  expense 
that  he  knew  of  nothing  which  Margaret  could  do  I 
came  on  the  forlorn  hope  that  there  might  be  an  impo 
tant  letter  of  sci  .■  sort  waiting  him  at  his  old  roomi 
and  m  another  r.),!.  of  panic-stricken  activity  he  hui 
ried  towards  tha^  .r,;„obability  as  if  it  had  been  tl 
most  certain  aid  Ue  saw  the  streets  cold,  unfriendh 
crowded,  as  busy  as  machinery,  and  as  remorseless  H 
was  always  to  remember  them  in  that  aspect-as  ai 
exhausted  swimmer,  struggling  to  reach  shore,  wil 
remember  the  horrible  composure  of  level  water  tha 
engulfed  h.s  feeble  agonies  without  so  much  as  showin, 
a  shudder  on  its  vast  blank  of  cruelty. 

Conroy  opened  the  door  to  him,  blocking  it  with  i 
challenging  scowl. 

"Are  there  any  letters  for  me  here!" 

"No." 

"Is  Bert  in?" 

"No." 

Don  saw  a  woman's  hat  and  .-eil  on  the  dining-room 
table.  He  looked  mquiringly  at  his  cousin ;  and  Con- 
roy shut  the  door  on  that  look  as  if  he  considered  it  an 
impertinence. 

Don  turned  towards  his  lodgings,  too  weak  to  drag 
himself  any  further.  He  was  conscious  only  of  the 
physical  need  of  rest.  At  thought  of  the  shelter  of  his 
room,  he  ached,  body  and  mind,  for  the  closed  door  and 
the  bed  that  awaited  him. 

Margaret,  at  midday,  knocked  to  discover  whether  he 
had  returned;  and  he  put  on  cheerfulness  like  a  mask 


THE  VISIONARY 


361 


leT  '"•     "^'^  ^•'"  '-'^y  f-  luncheon  r- 

two."  ^  "■    "'  '*'*  ''•"•d  t""'  he  'd  be  back  at 

"Forme?" 

PiiSy.''.   "'^^•''''^^^-tflat-    "It  must  Ve  been  Bert 
"What  did  Mr.  Kidder  say?" 

thin,  for  you,""  t"     S  it  IraT.""?"'"*^- 
.   "We  'lldonosuchthing/'le   all-i  "-      r- 
>ng  to  have  you  worried  atut  me     l  h-  ?    ''"■ 

^^Xti:^r"-°-~--t:i.?^ 

--'nSe^,^---  -her  word 

w>;H^^sie:;ter;itr^^:ir"'' "  -^^■ 

to  deceive  hi^  fa^i^'L  rar'th  "'"  T""'  """"' 
i-t  a  few  .eeU  KZ^l^;'Z"l  T""  ^' 
'•■ncheons  as  this  were  numW  d-  fZ     Z  T  '"'"' 

done",  ie  Si.*"'  ""'  °*  '*  "^^-^  ^''^  afternoon   '« 


•■'«2  D0N.A-DBBAM8 

'We  oa^ht  to  economize." 
''Well,  let  us  have  one  last  splurge  " 

BuddtT;.  '"  '*""  '"""  ^''"-  "•°'»'-'"  he  asked 

She  admitted,  with  reluctance,  that  «he  had. 
wjiat  does  she  sayf" 

You  'JT„  r  °°*  ^"'"^  home-and  that  's  all 

Vou    ve  had  worry  enough  about  me.     J   ']]  tell  vou 

sey,  nor."  ^°"  ^""^  "''''"'S  ^r.  Pitt- 

Ves.       They  rose  together.     "And  you  're  pot  to 
worry  about  me,  will  youf"  J'  "    re  not  to 

lie  shook  his  head,  without  meeting  the  tender  anxiety 
of  her  erutmy.  And  he  parted  from  her  at  the  stens 
of  an  elevated  station  .tiW  guiltily  averting  hi    eyel 

To  pay  for  their  dinner,  he  had  "broken"  wfL. 
ten-dollar  bill.  He  wonde'red  whethe  he  "nigJ^^  * 
row  a  imle  money  from  Bert  Pittsey.  II  uppotj 
that  P,ttsey  was  coming  to  see  him  about  some  nTw 


TUB  VISIONARY 


,"  for  they 
,  and  their 
not  catin); 
t  'm  doing 
3  out  of  a 
liim.  She 
d  a  guilty 
y  received 

he   asked 


f.-ont  windows     I^  hi  1       ^  """^^  """  °'  'he 

Walter  Pit^y  standing  tT.;"*"  *'"  *""•  •-«  "- 
waiting  for  him     HeTn     ^  "^'^  "'  *••"  P"'"'- 

"WpII    n      a  'topped,  ineredulous. 

who  rose  fro^a^hr  £r:^wi  dr„^f  ''"'"* 
J^reet  hin.  with  her  slow  smile  ''  '-"'""'^  *" 

Don  took  her  hand  in  silence  looking  f-       i. 

of  he  did  nottnoXhT  *"  ''""'''  "*  ''"  ^^^"^^^'"'^ 

.ofheZ^Sf.:''^''^"'^^'«"^-*°-it^^^^ 

.^.•.fhrL;i*::i/ried'r  •".  -'-'-  '-"'"«''• 

looked  at  her  th^oLh  th  "  *■""  «'  '^  ^^  ^ad 

Ue  was  diz",;'Zt  thatT'/"'  "'."  **^-P- 
the  room  were  wS  ud  «n  ^  .      '"".■f"'^  ''""°«  "^ 

bottom  of_ahenows.p-\;rrLtd^7thS 
chair.    "The  floor's-"  "«  stumbled  towards  a 


MICROCOfY   RESOLUTION   TEST  CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


_^  APPLIED    ItVHGE       In 

^S^j  1653   Easl  Moin   Street 

=rs  Rochester,   Nem.  York         14609       USA 

■.^5  (716)   *82  -  0300  -  Phone 

^=  (716)   288 -5989  -Fa. 


364 


DON-A-DREAMS 


They  helped  him  to  one  of  Airs.  McGahn's  horse-hair 
sofas  Someone  chafed  his  hands.  Someone  unbnt- 
toned  his  collar.  He  heard  tense  and  anxious  voices 
m  the  famt  distance.  "I  -m  all  right,"  he  said  "I 
was  walking.  I  'm  tired.  I_"  His  voice  faded  away 
above  him  as  he  rocked  down  slowly  into  darkness. 

He  came  back  to  consciousness  at  the  chill  touch  of  a 
wet  handkerchief  on  his  forehead  and  the  priekle  of  am- 
monia fumes  in  his  nostrils;  and  he  opened  his  eyes  on 
a  sphttmg  headache  that  seemed  to  tear  his  brain 
Thanks,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  Miss  Jlorris  who  was 
bending  over  him.    "I  'm  better,  thanks."    She  put- 
back  the  wet  hair  from  his  forehead  and  drew  the  palm 
ot  her  hand  caressingly  down  his  cheek.     There  were 
tears  m  her  eyes,  but  before  he  could  be  sure  that  h,- 
had  seen  them,  she  had  risen  and  Mrs.  McGahn  stood 
m  her  place,  holding  a  pocket  flask  of  liquor  from  which 
i'lttsey  poured  a  little  into  a  glass. 
"Swallow  this." 

It  ran  down  his  throat  like  fire.  He  coughed  and 
sputtered,  laughing  almost  hysterically.  In  a  few 
moments  he  was  sitting  up  again,  trying  to  smile  rather 
wanly  at  his  collapse.  Then  they  told  him  what  they 
had  come  to  tell. 

Mr.  Polk's  treasurer  had  written  to  Pittsey  in  Bos- 
ton asking  him  to  take  charge  of  the  "ticket  office  end" 
of  the  new  theater.  "We  used  to  work  together  at  the 
old  Academy,"  Pittsey  explained  in  an  aside.  And 
Pittsey 's  influence  with  the  treasurer  had  joined  Miss 
Morris's  applications  to  Polk  to  procure  for  Don  a  posi- 
tion in  the  ticket  office  at  $25  a  week.    "I  saw  Edder 


THE  VISIONART  355 

this  morninpr,  jnst  after  yon  ,voiv  there,"  Pittsey  hur- 
ried on,  "and  he  told  me  what  you  'd  been  doing.  I  Ve 
been  trying  to  connect  with  you  ever  since.  Kidder 
said  I  must  have  passed  you  in  the  elevator  as  I  came 

Don  shook  his  head,  worried  by  the  pain  behind  his 
eyes  and  by  Pittsey 's  evasive  explanations,  "t  jid  n't 
come  down  in  the  elevator.  I  walked.  I  've  been  walk 
...g  ever  since."  He  straightened  up,  shining-eyed 
How  am  I  ever  going  to-to  thank  you  two.  I-" 
"Don't  thank  me,"  Pittsey  interrupted.  "It  was 
Miss  Morris." 

"What  a  story!"  she  said.  "I  had  n't  thought  of 
the  office.  I  was  trying  to  get  you  into  the  company  " 
In  the  light  of  gratitude  in  which  he  saw  her  she 
seemed  even  more  beautiful  than  she  had  ever  been  be- 
fore; and  he  looked  at  her  with  an  expression  of  face 
which  made  Pittsey  put  in  hastily:  "The  first  thing 
you  do,  you  buy  a  new  overcoat  and  a  new  suit  of 
clothes.  KuflFman  goes  by  exteriors.  Get  your  hair 
cut  i  la  Manhattan-and  never  let  him  see  you  smoking 
a  pipe.  ° 

"I  need  shoes,  too,"  Don  acknowledged  simply 
Pittsey  rose.    "I  '11  call  for  you  to-morrow  morning 

and  see  you  outfitted.    Then  I  '11  introduce  you  to  your 

new   job'." 

||Wait  a  moment,"  Don  pleaded.    "I  want  to—" 
"No;  you  must  go  to  your  room  now  and  have  a 

sleep         Miss   Morris    said,    bidding    him    good-bye 
I     11   see   you   to-morrow,   too."     And   disengaging 

themselves   from   Don's  confused   thanks,  they  went 


366 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


111 


S='-^^-£Lr£r:-; 


VII 

S  of  his     fo  b^;:  """^^  '■°*  -"^  ''  '^"-"S  "f  the  dan 
dZlv  „    .  ""  "'""■«"■      nat  they  are  no 

of  "  t  ™s"    ?r^  *".""  r'°  "'*''  ^  veteran -/contem" 
ot  storms.    The  ens.s  through  which  Don  had  passcv 

be  a     r  it  "  ^       .f'.'*-       ''*''  '''*  ^  *«»  y»"  ^^e  M 
.ooJ'fr ;  in^anTinratlrtSter.^?:-  "^ 

■-ain  or  It.    It   11-  Now  it  's  your  turn.    Wc  '11  orsan 
y^e  your  campaign  now,  won't  we?" 

She  nodded,  to  conceal  thought.  She  had  not  told 
him  what  success  her  afternoon 's  quest  had  h«rl  Z,  T 
had  admitted  that  her  mother's  Chad     dt'Th  ; 

Xtle'^erCatV"'  ''''  '""^  ''"'  ^""^  "^^^^  th^ 
f,         r^-  *  *"™^  ^^ay  wrath  even  while  it  re 

etsTof 'Tn-b  ''^•""  "^"'  "^  *"«  '--^  h- 
ffwi,  "  hear  ma  day  cr  two." 

Well,  don't  worry,"  he  counselled  her.  "I  have- 
If  you  run  out  of  money,  you  must  let  me  'stake'  you 
until  you  find  what  you  wish."  "''eyou 


THE  VISIONARY 


remain  on  his"  11^,  *  ^        J  """^  '^'  '«*  ^"  ^and 

apology  for ;;;  7^;^hf,^7;--t'^'^- "-  -^  "" 

Pa.e  of  an  interrupted  real,'  '  t  was  T Do^n  l^ 
ting  insr  doJi»  nf  ..n  ,„  .•       .  as  to  Don  the 

electriealf;  h.  at  Sd"/  ^''"""'  *'"'"'^"  "'•" 
movement  mi^htll?^'  ^""'  *•"*'  '''^  «''«htest 

of  thedarCs'sl^r,  ,  i''o™nV^'"^*''  ''""  ""' 
that  joined  her  to  Z  loTTfy,""'' '''"''''''''' 
secretly    like  the  hi  1 1        ^      ^   "  '   *''''*«'   strangers, 

smalls;  and  Don  h',tln  ^f ""'"'="  ">  P'^-'ukes  and  satin 
his  eyes  It  in  Tl  """^  '"'*'=''"'  ""h  his  soul  in 
'iee.?:.  be    aluTt  ir?  ?  T'  '"  "^  ^-^ 

Slid      "T  1  ,  '''""'«^  *"  work  before  "  he 

-ul.        I  have  always  been  worried-by  all  Tr'ts  of 


368 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


things-and  upset.  Now,  with  twenty-flve  dollars  . 
week,  and  lots  of  time  to  myself,  I  '11  be  able  to  d( 
something-something  worth  while."  And  on  theii 
way  back  to  their  lodgings-all  his  worries  untangled 
and  his  future  as  straight  and  level  as  the  street  before 
him-he  walked  with  her  on  his  arm,  as  stiffly  as  a 
schoolboy  who  marches  beside  the  music  of  a  military 
band,  almost  strutting,  his  face  stern  with  ambition  and 
as  pale  as  if  the  shock  and  glory  of  battle  were  await- 
ing him  at  the  foot  of  the  street. 

Walter  Pittsey  took  him,  in  the  morning,  to  be  "out- 
fitted," and  lent  him  money  for  his  purchases,  and 
advised  him  on  the  styles  with  the  experience  of  a  man 
to  whom  the  art  of    jonomical  good  dressing  has  been 
a  study.    Pittsey  knew  where  to  -ind  ready-made  cloth- 
ing that  could  not  be  known  from  tailor-made;  he  chose 
a  necktie  with  deliberation;  he  spert  an  lour  in  search 
of  an  overcoa*  that  should  fill  out  Don's  shoulders  and 
still  preserve  the  distinction  of  his  lean  height ;  he  made 
Don  try  on  several  different  styles  of  shoes,  frowning 
and  shaking  his  head  as  he  studied  over  them-  and 
when  he  had  finished,  Don,  for  thirty  dollars,'  was 
apparently  a  young  gentleman  of  fashion  dressed  in 
the  faultless  simplicity  of  quiet  good  taste.    "Now," 
Pittsey  said,  "I  've  noticed  that  you  have  the  English 
trick  of  saying  'sir'  to  your  elders.     You  had  better 
cut  It  out  with  Huffman;  he  does  n't  understand  that 
sort  of  thing,  you  know.    Just  behave  with  him  as  you 
did  with  Kidder,  at  flrst-as  if-  Well,  I  suppose  if 


THE  VISIONARY 


'  dollars  a 
able  to  do 
1  on  their 
untangled, 
reet  before 
itiffly  as  a 
a  military 
bition  and 
ere  await- 


)  be  "out- 
lases,  and 

of  a  man 

has  been 
ade  eloth- 
;  he  chose 

in  search 
Iders  and 
;  he  made 
frowning 
lem;  and 
iars,  was 
ressed  in 

"Now," 
i  English 
id  better 
and  that 
n  as  you 
ippose  if 


369 
you  were  conscious  of  it,  you  could  n't  do  it     But 
don't,  for  anything,  let  him  think  you  need  the  .'job^'' 
The  warmng  was  not  necessary;  for  Don  was  already 
unconscious  y,  playing  the  part  for  which  his  ebthes 
had  made  h,m  up.    He  had  luncheon  with  Prttsey  and 
he  aeeepted  the  assiduous  deference  of  the  w       r  wuJ 
a  pleasant  condescension.     He  accepted  Kuffman    Is 
he  had  accepted  Kidder,  in  that  boyfsh  indiSnc;  of 
dismterest  which  had  impressed  the  super. 'agent     nf 
was,  m  fact,  content  to  leave  all  intercourse  w1  h  Kuff 
waTt "/'''''";'  "''"^^-     ^"-J  «--  the  tiTet  offlS 
h  mself  to  helpmg  P.ttsey  arrange  the  tickets  in  thl 
p.geon^holed  case  beside  the  grated  wind  w,  wMe  h 
hstened  attentively  to  the  instructions  whi  h  Ssey 
gave  h,m  concerning  his  small  duties  as  relief  man  at 
the  wicket  during  the  "off"  hours. 
"You  'U  have  to  remember  that  you  're  a  nickel-in 

Tr  J^^^^^^'^"''  ""tsKle  puts  in  his  money  and  gets 

It  f:i-  T'T'\  ^"--•^-t'ons  politely,  S 
that  s  all.  It  s  the  only  way  to  do  the  work.  Never- 
never-never  talk  to  anyone  through  those  bars.'' 

aress  like  dowagers,  came  into  the  office  to  give  final 
directions  about  the  tickets  that  were  to  be  plced  for 

'-Whe  ""7T  '°*''  '"■'^  ■' '""'  ^«  ^^'^  Don  sudlenf;' 
Where  did  you  get  the  necktie  ? ' '  ^ 

"ml*^T'^'    '""  -^'^    embarrassment,    to    Pittsey. 
Where  did  we  get  it!"  "^ 


370 


DON-A-I  XEAMS 


Pittsey  coughed  deliberafclv      "  Dn  v..,  i-,     ■. 
W  the  ,nato  to  it.     We  J  t.  Ji/!1^;* 

I  boug-hf :„e":r,r,  '"""""'''^"  habemasL.:. 

better  'c„t  uXlu^  S";'.!''  ^^  ?r"''^'  "  ^•- 

"skB  ,„„  about  your'^cli  '  aont"  urn^r  """^ 
were  your  valet."  '°  "■"  is  i 

Don  obeyed  him,  bewildered.   "Wl,vdi.]l,»     t 
;;i  suppo,    ,      ,,,.  he  wantedTo\ut  .'"'"'^ 
^But  you  did  n't  tell  him  " 
C'  w'ereti:  'J'"-^.'-«^ed.    "  -Get  wise.' 

Don's  tieketXVpt   r  bmV'  V!!"'  ""^"'^ 
tocrease  his  stock  of  thlf  ^  I    T     ^  '^"'  '"'*  ^^-^w 
wished  him  to  acanl       T."     °^  ^''^°'"  ^*''«1'  Pi«« 
fore  the  foet  that  n  ''"''  ""^  '"°^'  ""^•'^•^n  b 

for  Don  tried  to  snht.lf  Tv,  ""'""^  "^a^ge- ' 

flve-dollar  Ml     s  if  he  ^"''  "'  "^  "<"^«*  f^"'"  ■■ 

tic,"  instead  of  us  nl''"'"^'""^  """^"t«'  «"th,„... 
■na'nner  of  ttel  ::  f„,^^  ^  "37,?'^  ''^*-  ^'^'^ 
to  learn,  so  grateft,!  fn.Z    1  '■!•  ^^  "^^^  ^^  ^ag^''' 

^niration  for\  s  til     that  Ptr  '"'  u  '""  "'  ''■ 

angry  with  him     AnT,^-         ,        ''^  """'''  ""^  '"eniain 

y  with  him.    And  his  evident  honesty,  his  devotion 


•oil  like  it  f    I 

's  win- 

ilasli<.r-"an(l 

nd  went  out. 
nife,  "  you  'ci 
next  time  ho 
■0  me  as  if  I 


Get  wise.'  " 
Ite  nature  iu 

not  seem  to 
hich  Pittsey 
lowever,  bc- 
iame  known 
ity  was  ex- 
a  foreignef 
be  "wise" 
y   lost    his 
It  he  must 
?  change," 
ket  from  n 
il  arithiiK". 

after  tho 
IS  so  eagei' 
'ull  of  a<J- 
lot  remain 
s  devotion 


THK  VISIONARY  371 

lptsS;::n^"'his''  ""'^'^"  '■"  •"  "--*  -'--'^ 

weighed  his  defects  ^^^'^  ""'- 

ret  o^hi^Vir  r  "'  '■'^  --'ow  aL    he  wi 

that  asked'L  were  ansSr  "  '"'  '''"'°  '"""^ 
appeared.  TherT  was  toTes  ^fv'  ''""""'^  """^  '''■'- 
in  the  fact  that  ^Zl^^       "^^'''^  P'-^"'""*  *"  ^m 

whisper  c7thep„rcha^efat^h  """  '"''  ^""^  ^"«'''-' 

comfortable  as  honTfn  v,      ^'^t,     "^  '^a™*!',  was  as 
world  seemed  tot   oLw'",';,!^'^  ""  *^«  '-*  of  the 

But  I    „  r,to„i„g  „<,^|j^  ^^  ^^j  ^^^^  „ 


.•i73 


DON-A-DREAMS 


she  sa.,1.    "Wc  shall  have  to  wait  till  Sunday-u„W 
1  enn  moct  you,  somu  ilay,  at  lunch  time.    I  '11  try    ' 

t^he  ,hd  not  ask  hin.  about  Maa-aret,  nor  did  she  men- 
tm  Polk,  and  Don,  with  his  faculty  for  self-deception. 
d.d  not  try  to  look  below  the  smilinK  sHrfaee  of  her 
inendlmess. 

When  the  office  had  been  closed  for  the  nlRht.  he  went 
with  Pittsey  to  have  dinner  at  the  latter's  hotel-  but 
he  went  wondering  how  Margaret  had  spent  the  day 
nnd  wishmg  that  he  could  think  of  an  excuse  for  escap 

witJwT;    "k'  "?''•  ""*•  '"  ^••'™''«hip,  refuse  to  .line 
V  ith  W  alter  but  he  was  Klad  when  Bert  Pittsey  joined 

i!!?  f  1,  .  T*"''  """'"''  '""  "^  "^"'spar.ers  and  his 
head  ful  of  ehatter-for  his  arrival  relieved  Don  of 
he  burden  of  conversation,  and  left  him  to  his 
tliouBhts;  and  while  he  ate  distractedly  he  went  over  'a 
memory  all  the  impressions  of  his  busy  day,  and  re- 
called Margaret,  across  the  crowded  interval  of  separ- 
ation, as  if  he  had  not  seen  her  for  a  month. 

Bert,  in  his  new  position  as  "cub  reporter,"  was 
•loing  what  he  called  "leg  work,"  and  he  had  adven- 
tures to  relate.  He  gave  his  account  of  them  with  his 
usual  air  of  young  deviltry.  "Had  an  assignment  this 
afternoon  to  root  out  a  story  of  an  old  curb-market 
stock-sharp  who  was  marrying  a  woman  that  owned  a 
b.xth  Avenue  restaurant.  They  Ve  been  boarding  in 
the  same  house.  I  could  n't  see  either  of  them,  so  I 
had  to  imagine  them.  I  imagined  him  a  Wall  street 
millionaire  who  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  beautiful 
waitress  who  used  to  feed  him  his  lunch.  It  made  a 
great  story!     The  only  trouble  with  reporting  is  that 


373 


THE  VISIOXARY 

'It  i«  reportfd-  that     ThaT t ;.'  '''  '^  T''  ''"'  """ 
lisS'toT'  ''■"  .''•■•'■  *"«  «'-  "^  -  older  brother 

"What  '8  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

for'p„JostVf  pTbSi.r  -^--  ««•«'-  uni- 
"Who  is  she?" 

viewed'°"fL'""'  "politician  declining  to  be  inter- 
ir:;  preLt""  °"''"^  ^^^*--  ^  -^  -  that  sub- 

othlfdayT"  *'"'-''"  ''''  ^^'^'-^''-  I  -"«d  the 

ex;:!:rtrd;;ni;7;eS  ""^"  '"'"'-*° 

not?"  weather  .  e  're  having,  is  it 

hpT^'-'V'^"'''''-     "^""  ''«•'  '^tter  keep  out  of  it  " 

troubt"         "    "'^°"  '"  ""'^  «^'  ^°--'f  -to  -ore 

"Me  too,"   Bert  said.    "I  intend  to  dissolve  partner- 


DON-ADBEAMS 


374 

Hliip  with  your  gentle  cousin  a.  KM.n  ai  powibl,.  and 

7LT  *M  .f  "n""*  *'^'"'"'  -^  S  blow  .■ 
That  wa.  all  that  Don  could  learn  of  the  matter    li 

.ought  ,t  over.    With  the  arrival  of  coffee  and  eiga« 

he  concluded  to  let  the  affair  rest  until  Pitt«,ya  d" 

solution  of  partnership  should  make  it  possible  to  dis 

cover  the  whole  truth.     When  Walter  proposed  thai 

hey  finish  the  night  at  a  theater,  Don  slid:  "I  ouglH 

to  go-  I  have  some  letters  I  should  write."    But  Wal 

ter  would  not  hear  of  such  a  way  of  wasting  an  evening 

lou  have  n  t  many  more  nights  free,"  he  said.    And 

Don  went  with  them  irresolutely. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  he  returned  to  his  lodg- 
ings, but  as  he  came  cautiously  upstairs  he  saw  a 
thread  of  light  under  Margaret's  door.  He  tapped  on 
bJ"f,  """^  '"'"''^'  ""'^'"'  •»'*  ^o^'^--  "How  have  you 

The  door  burst  open  as  if  it  had  been  set  on  a  spring 
Margaret  confronted  him.  "Someone-  She  's  coming! 
She  knows  I  was  on  the  stage.    Someone  has  told  her  >" 

Confused  by  the  suddenness  of  the  light  in  his 
eyes  and  by  the  anxious  appeal  for  aid  that  sounded  in 

•'mZuTh^or  °' '-' "''"''' '-  ''^'^-'^■ 

"Mother  1  Someone!  She  does  n 't  say  who  She's 
commg-on  her  way-now.  She  won't  wait  for  me 
to  go.    !~he  s  coming  for  me.    What  shall  I  doj" 

She  waited  for  him  to  answer.     He  said,  at  last 
inadequately:  "Well,  tell  her  you  won't  go  " 

"But  she  '11  make  me  I" 

"How  can  she?" 


THE  VISIONARY 


375 

'.*^"„'?r''"  '"  '^y  '""'''"'    I  can't-" 
Well      ho  gaid  weakly,  "suppose  she  is.    She  can't 
take  you  if  you  don't  want  to  go  " 
She  stepped  into  the  hall  and  drew  the  ,loor  to   be- 

-I  vc  faded  to  Bet  anythinR.  I  -ye  b«.„  g„i„„  all 
SrC  a?ft  r"^'^™  ""  "''  -y'hi„«-„U 
that  I  should  go  home  an,!  study,  „n.l  eon.c  down  again 
m  a  year  or  two.  I  h..ve  nothing  to  toll  her-^t  'ven 
a  prospect  of  anything.  I  can't-I  h,.ve  to- Two'"" 
have  even  a  home.    I  have  n't  any  money-  " 

He  put  m  eagerly :  "That  's  all  right.    I  have  plenty 
now-enough  for  both  of  us."  ^   ^ 

^J'But  if  I  don't-  I  may  never.    It  may  be  .■     rs. 

"I  don't  care-a«  long  as  you  stay." 
stanSr-'  """'*'    '  """"^  "^  *""*•    ^""''  yo"  "«J- 

The  hall  was  dark,  he  could  not  see  her  face     But 
there  was  an  almost  tearful  exasperation  in  her  voice 
and  he  hurried  to  plead  against  that  tone:     "Don't' 
leave  me  now,  when  everything  's  beginning  to  go  right 
when  I  .^  ,„,t  b,g,„„i„g  ^„  ^  ^^,^  ^^  help^ou     i 

to  offer-""  '"•    ^'  "'"*  •""  '"''    '''''  ^-  «"' 

T  "^.?/?"r  ^'"'  '"  "y  "«'*''«•■■  y*"'  'a  her  right 
I  can't  te  1  her-  I  have  n't  anything  to  tell  her.  if  t 
you—  jt   s  wc-that  have  no  right  " 

A  ','^*u''n''^*  """  ^  ''°'  ^"t  do  you  want  me  to 
do»    Shall /see  her r"  ""i^  me  lo 

"What  good  would  that  do  J" 


376 


D0N-A-DREAM8 


There  was  a  despair  of  him  in  her  voice.  He  reachc, 
her  hand  in  the  ddrkness,  as  if  to  hold  her  to  the  friendl. 
sympathy  of  the  past  few  days.  "Don't-  Don't-' 
'But  Don,"  she  whispered,  coming  as  if  uneon- 
scionsly  to  the  arm  that  supported  her,  "what  are  we  tc 
dot  I  Imow-  I  don't  want  to  go.  I  don't  want  tc 
leave  you  "  Her  hand  was  on  his  shoulder;  he  held 
her  hke  a  lover.  ' '  We  must  be  practical.  We  can 't-  " 
I  will"  he  choked.  "I  '11  think  of  something. 
Don  t  let  her  take  you  away.  I  could  n  't  live  here  now 
without  you.    I—"  ' 

There  was  the  rustle  of  a  stealthy  movement  on  the 
landing  below  them.  She  tried  to  draw  back.  He  held 
her  to  a  hurried  "Good-night"  and  the  kiss  that  ac- 
companied  it.  He  felt  her  relax  in  his  arms.  "Good- 
night," she  whispered,  warm  against  his  cheek-and 
immediately  she  was  gone. 

He  fumbled  his  way  upstairs  to  his  room,  in  the  blind 
darkness,  mechanically,  every  conscious  faculty  of  his 
mind  still  entangled,  bewildered,  enraptured  by  the 
transport  and  sudden  ecstaey  of  that  caress 


VIII 

The  thought  with  which  he  awoke  in  the  morning  was 
the  resolve  to  which  he  had  held  himself  as  he  fell 
asleep  overnight:  that  he  must  do  something  decisive 
at  once.  He  had  no  time  to  lose;  her  mother  might 
arrive  at  any  moment;  they  must  be  prepared  with  a 
plan  of  action  to  meet  her. 


THE  VISIONARY  377 

forward  to  their  marriage  as  a  .Ji^f  '"'"'''' 

for  his  success  in  Iif»    ^      ..  °*  crowning  event 

"f  a  courtshin    «r,t  ».      •   "'.  ^"^"^  '""  w°g  persuasion 
«  courtsnip-not  hurried  into  marriage  like  a  mrl 
of  the  tenements,  against  her  will  h^  tv.      1    !        ^ 
lover  who  would  use  her  L      I    K    !  ^'"^''"'^  "^  « 
But  in  rh  !  necessity  to  force  her. 

£f^t=;rSerii^:;onS^r; 

tapped  on  her  door.    4es?^  I'ZtT''''  '''' 

for  yl"      '     ''  ''*''•    "'  '"  "«"  '''  '"^^  fr-t  door 

He^lnrK*^,  •""■  P""'"'  bare-footed,  across  the  floor 
He  went  below  and  stood  outside  on  the  old  '■It^T'' 
ooking  down  on  the  hurry  of  clerks  and  shop-gtTs  ' 

to  arudgery.    The  sky  was  a  sombre  wash  of  smud.-ed 
grey,  heavy,  unrcfreshed,  as  if  the  day  had  been  wf 


378 


DON-A-DREAMS 


I    ^ 


ened  too  soon  and  was  still  sulky  for  lack  of  sleep.    1 
air  was  thick  with  the  chill  and  odor  of  night-dam 
He  buttoned  his  overcoat  resolutely  and  put  on 
gloves.    "Now,"  he  said  to  himself,  "let  us  see.    Wl 
shall  we  do?" 

The  question  was  still  unanswered— though  he  v 
pacing  up  and  down  the  pavement  with  it,  vainly  ti 
ing  to  think— when  he  saw  her  descending  the  steps 
the  sidewalk.  He  hastened  to  meet  her.  "Have  y 
thought  of  anything?" 
She  blushed  faintly.  "No." 

' '  We  must, ' '  he  said.    ' '  Your  mother  may  arrive  a; 
moment  now.    Does  she  know  your  address ! ' ' 
"Yes." 

"She  '11  come  direct  to  the  house,  then?" 
"I  suppose  so." 
"Let  us  get  away  from  here." 
He  turned  his  back  on  the  bustle  of  Sixth  Aven 
and  led  her  toward  the  quieter  streets  of  old  Gree 
wich.    She  went  in  a  silence  which  left  the  affair  whol 
in  his  hands ;  and  he  frowned  over  it  diligently. 

He  began:  "It  won't  cost  me  ten  dollars  a  week 
live  now,  and  I  have  twenty-five.    Why  can't  you  tal 
the  rest— the  fifteen— for  as  long  as  you   '11  need 
and  just  tell  your  mother  that  you  have  money  to  ke( 
you  here  and  you  intend  to  stay?" 

"Because  I—"  He  did  not  understand  her  conf 
sion.    "Because  I  con '<." 
"Why  can't  you?" 

"How  can  11    I  have  no—  There  's  no  reason  wl 
you—" 
"Yes  there  is.     There  's  every  reason."  She  shoe 


379 


THE  VISIONARY 
her  head.  "Yes  therp  i»  "    \,     ■     ■  .    , 

now,  ever  «„ce  you  Ve  been  here,  I  Ve  been     T   " 
been  so—  Have  n't  «„.,  u^      i.  Been— I  Ve 

g„,„         ^'^'""^t  you  been  happy,    Do  you  want  to 

the  tragic  change  in  his  face- '^  'f""  '"f"^'  ^"""^ 

I  need  to  study.     I  could  dn  tZT  .  ..  ^'""^• 

while  I  'm  teac'^.ing.     We  could  1^  T'".'*"'^- 
We  could  .    .    .    ^ait.M     """'"^  '^"'^  *«  each  other. 

took  his  ar^to  Che  J  h t"  T°'  f  "^  '"^^"  «"« 
"I  can't  wait.  I  ca^t  li:  ,f:  ^  ""  ^ 'Tf '^  = 
go  again.    I  can't."  '  '^*  ^ou 

we;iTa;;;„,''f.;rw'eiSTd''V'''  ^^"-^--^  ^'-^^ 

thing  happened,  I  'd  be-''  "  *  ^'  """^  ^''^^  "°y- 

J'S  coufd""  l^'  '^^"^"^  "^  '-^  -  y-  don't 
Stay  with  me.    Don 't  le^ve  1771";,   '   "  «««  *«  that. 
P.2i^""'    «^-Wtohisar«.    -.wen^ustbe 
"Practical,    What  do  I  care  whether  we  're  practi- 


It 


380 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


eal  or  not  as  Ions  as  we  're  happy.    I  won't  lot  vn., 

I  won 't  (f  ve  von  im  i    if,       ,  *  y" 

go  after  you. •'       "^     " ^"^  ''"""  ""^  ''^«'°'  ^  '"-1 

A  man,  approachinj-   stared  as  he  came   an,l  th 

ly-  It  s  so  unreasonable!  Blaming  me'  It  '«  n. 
for  your  sake—"  "    *  "" 

her^T' '*'''  f°'  ""^  '"''"'"  ''^  P'«'"'«''-  "I  'm  on 
nere-l    m  only  workinj?  for  vnii     T>,»  ^  ,    „ 

you.  Everything  I  do  fs  for  you -She  r^l,'' 
the  handkerchief  in  the  bosom  oTher  jacket  "w'' 
^en  so    appy.    j,,,  „„^_  ,,,  ^^  J-Jj^      We 

yorln ,""""  '"  ^"^^  ''"'^  '^^^«  "-^-  won't.-    i 

p^s^n^rw;:iti^jry;^--- 

all  rSt  iV'"'*  ""'  ^''^'  '''*°  '''''°^-  Was  n't  tha 
h  w  tg  it  takeTt7Jd'''''  "°";  ''"'  ""='*  ""  -  -" 
day,  J  1  ?t  f^^d  m™  nd^'^e  'lit'/'  ^-"^ 
"" '  Yerres^'"  "^^^  ''^^^"'^-  -^»  yl";.  *"-*'•- 
all's  ?nT  ''^'* ''°''  "''^^^^  «'««  ""tter  ?    That  's 

a"AsVmXrh;;nr^^^^^^  ^^  •>-- 
-T'tTn;rg^Vo^£~^^^^^^^^^^  - 

both  miseJ^bL  She  has^^^rr  "'''*  ""'  "'^'^^  "^ 
have  to  work  at  what  y  u  don't Tke'T.  J""  '" 
ea.  wait  until  you  find 'what  you  ^oUlJ^  '"'  ^'"' 


X 


I'tletyougo! 
in,  I  'U—i  'ji 


THE  VISIONARY 


381 

would  win  her  to   tit  ,w    '"     ."  '"^^  *"  '^'""^  '"' 

sac,  and  th  yhad  to  In      T  *"''  ""'"'"^  '°  "  «"l-«'«- 
without  interruntion  ;„  „   °^'  '"*'  Promises  went  on 

-^e  of  those  old  0reenwiehXi*'h7w^^         t 
m  aimless  turns  and  circling,  ZZ  ^a»d«^red 

directed  them  to  a  street  tw         .  f '  Po''eeman 

Sixth  Avenue    %. '*'^''*  ""•*  ^""'^  return  them  to 

-staurfnTfrrbrlatLTnthr'.*"""^  ''''''  ""'^ 
spent  emotions.  '       "^^  '"'"""^  "^  ''""^^  a°d 

fo,!i!,?w?''  ''''  "'™'  "P*™"™  at  the  table  but  he 

0Bmm 

hallway  outside  her  door,  exaetin<r  ),».  J^ , 

.J.. ...... M  „  -«.i.;r;r ". "r, rsr 

,  ''"''', '^'"^  '"'"d.  Imfjerinff,  on  a  desire  to  make  a  fomW 
lmve.tak.n,=  but  she  seemed  withdrawn  from  h  m  bv 
ier  anx,ety,  and  he  was  afraid  to  intrude  Ms  love  on 


382  J50N-A-DBKAMS 

She  replied,  dispiritedly.-  "Good-bye." 
o^v^r  Sf  r  '"h^^  f  '•'^  ""'"""«'«  ^o'k  rushed 

nead.       it   s  the  only  way  yon  '11  ever  learn  '•    Lor 

weaK,  but  his  ha.  .Is  were  beginning  to  move  deftlv  h 
voice  came  calm,  and  he  had  moments  Xn  he  'aint 

h^.  .  T     ?^'     *'  '''»^''«''-    "What  you  need  is  a 
beefsteak  and  a  glass  of  ale  " 

stelk'buTl  h  "  '*°^"'"""'  ^"^'^  •>«  *°°''  *«  beef. 

watched  L„ir,r"'"°'°*'  '^^""^'^  *"«  »!«•     She 
watched  his  plate  hke  a  grandr.other,  making  him  eat 


383 


THE  VISIONARY  ^83 

Ser*  L' w'Cltf'T  **"'';°''  ^*  '-  -  «-teful  to 
whether  h  had  no/tiTV'''?^  ''"  "°*  """^  ^--'^ 

stage.    She  spoke  of  iZ^ffJ  !  ^^^'^"''^  was  on  the 
of  boarding-h'ouse.  of  nf  Poik  s'"""'"/  "'  "^^  """^-^^ 

-^^^i~~-"^Stt: 

-He^^.--ntrt£^i:c^- 

burwV/trzrfo;r  f f  ^  ^''^  «"'™-"^  ^«<'. 

ov.r,  and  he  woS'^Uh  'l  t  '"'^  ''"'  "'"^^'^  -<« 
Office  eiosed,  he  e'fusrhiS~,  J^^  l"^ 
of  an  "engagement  "  n„^  „  *  ..u       "^iter,  on  the  plea 

ear  like  the  ~ LtEs™    tn'  *' v'"'°"'«  *°  ""^ 

h«ste  he  had  onee  envlJ  1  ^   ^^^^.-^New  Yorkers  whose 

He  ran  ^8^0  1         '"*  "^''  '°  ^"•°°  Square. 

Mrs.  MeGahn  :;!  d  tleTr  T."^'""''  ^■°^'""^- 
"Where  is  she?"      '"  *''^  '^°'>'-  ^  him.     He  stared. 

^  Jhe  's  her..    But  it  's  no  thanks  to  you  I    Conie  in 

andZtd,  EXhred'^;  thf  -T /^  ^°"^--^'^- 
on  a  sofa     ''Is  st  S''  "'     "'  '''''■^'"•^*  '^'^^ 

JSiek.-Ifsheain-t,it'sawonder..    I-dbesiekme. 
balkThl.'  '""  '^"'"    ^^'-^-^  -<1  faintly,  her 


384 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


"An'  you  're  the  sweet  one!"  Mrs.  McGahn  bri 
in.  "  To  go  off  au '  leave  her  to  fight  yer  battles  f er  yi 
What  're  yuh  thinkin'  of,  to  do  it,  man?" 

lie  did  not  reply  to  her.  He  had  scarcely  heard  h 
He  came  to  the  foot  of  the  sofa  as  awkwardly  as  a  t 
in  a  sick  room.    "What  's  the  matter!" 

She  rolled  her  head  on  the  cushion.  "I  '11  have 
go  home." 

He  dropped  his  hat.  "Why?" 

"Why?"  Mrs.  McGahn  echoed.  "Why!  Becai 
she  's  the  girl's  mother,  ain't  she?"  She  stopped 
the  ghastliness  of  his  face.  "Well,  dang  yuh,"  e 
cried  in  a  humorous  Irish  exasperation,  "yuh  're  t 
biggest  fool  alive.  If  yuh  want  the  girl,  why  don 't  y 
marry  her?  Shilly-shallyin',  an'  kissin'  in  the  halls 
night,  an'  tormentin'  her  with  yer  goin's  on!  W 
don't  yuh  marry  her  an'  tell  her  mother  to  go  off  a 
mind  her  bus 'ness?  Here!"  She  closed  the  door  ai 
came  back  to  front  him  like  a  magistrate.  "What  ' 
yuh  up  to,  young  man?  Will  yuh  marry  her,  er  w 
yuh  not  ?  Per,  by  the  jukes,  now,  if  yuh  won't,  yuh 
go  out  o'  here  this  blessed  minut'  an'  the  girl  '11 
home  in  the  mornin'  to  where  she  belongs !  Now  1  O 
with  it!" 

Margaret  struggled  to  get  up,  rising  on  her  elbo 
"Mrs.  McGahn!"  she  cried  piteously. 

"Be  still,  you."  She  rounded  on  Don  again.  "It 
take  it  er  leave  it!  She  can't  stay  here— an'  I  woi 
have  her  here.  She  's  her  mother's  daughter  uni 
she  's  a  wedded  woman  an'  out  o'  danger.  An'  hoi 
she  11  go!" 


THE  VISIONARY  „. 

.    ^°°  did  not  so  much  as  look  at  her     w 

'"»  to  the  girl  with  his  eyes     'S    "'"^•«  Weal- 

for  me  to  let  me-"  '    " y"  "arc  enough 

Hets  f;t  t'oliy  Ur  r^*-"'-^  »'  What 
him  to  Margaret's  Sid;  .'Here"|.^*''^"'»  ""^  dre. 
from  them,  she  marched  out  of  tL^tr  '  ""'  *''™"* 


IX 

Whkn  she  looked  in  again  rv,.  •   . 

"f  the  sofa,  in  the  dusT  /hf^    T  "'"'"^  °°  *J>e  edge 

-as  crying  on   his  "hoia Ider^'  M^""'  '"  "'^  """''^  ^^^ 
"Wellf"  Shoulder.     Mrs.  McGahn  smiled 

M«.°SlTr  '^"'"  '  ''--  ^--    "I«  «he  hack. 

I  hotfoot.    Persecutin-  the'chndp.    "  ""'  "'  '""^  '"'"-. 
'^^^t^rlt::^-— in.  until 

I  -who  '11  do  to-"        ^  "  '""'^  anyone-around  here 

"  Are  yuhCath 'lies?" 

"No.  We  're—" 

"Neither  am  I.    if  vnh  mi. 

«  "  yuh    d  been  Cath'lics,  I  'U  be 


386 


DON-A-DREAMS 


lit 


an  so  sDan.    Who  's  yer  min'sterf" 

in  I^hil''  '""'"'• ,  ^  '"'^*"'''  ""y"   ""  «»'«"'  hi«  hea 
in  a  helpless  perplexity. 

She  snorted.     "Yuh  young  heathen!    Yuh  deser 
no  better  than  bein'  married  be  an  alderman.    £ 
teaeh  yuh  to  go  to  ehurch.    It  's  well  fer  yuh  that  I  ', 
a   married   woman-with  daughter   like   me."     S 

r/r 'x^iiLr.-.A:' "  "*  t-  ™^-'"' "  ^'-'^ 

th.L      °'\\7'''^^'^-     An    my  dinner  in  the  oven! 
She  stopped  him:  <'Waitl    Do  yuh  know  the  size ?    No 

ehr  s  'u'nM  T  ""'    ^'  '"""'^^  ""  *"«  babe  at  : 
bitr-     Sh!    ""^tf   '"'r  •"*  "' «*"°8'    No,  not, 
•iresser.       lake  that-to  a  jeweler's.    Go  on!    Be  ofl 
with  yuh!    Take  yer  hat,  man!"    She  drove  him  ou 
the  nS  ''*"*  «'"'f '"^  tbe  glove  in  one  hand,  his  hal " 
the  other    She  called  down  the  stairs  after  hm-    <'It" 
a  four  wheeler  yuh  '11  want,  mind  yuh!"    She  shrieked 
at  the  next  landing:  "An'  a  witness!     I    'm   one 
Yuh  'II  want  two  1" 

If  Don  had  any  clear  idea  of  what  he  was  doing  at  the 
tune  certainly  he  had  no  clear  recollection,  afterward' 
of  how  he  had  done  it.  He  found  what  he  supposed  wa 
ouiTo  M  ^^''P-*'"'»«b  subsequently,  in  pointing 
out  to  Margaret,  he  saw  that  it  was  a  pawnbroker's 
He  bought  a  ring-that  must  have  been  an  "unre- 
deemed  pledge  "-without  knowing  what  he  paid  for  it 
-nie  man  behind  the  glass  show-case  called  him  back  to 
g.ve  him  the  glove,  which  he  had  forgotten;  and  be 


THE  VISIONARY  gg^ 

h«  hand  had  >^Z1Li:J  itT'r^  l"  T  ^ 
l'"arding.8table  directed  MmlTv  ""'"■  "'  " 

succeeded  in  hirinTa  l„h  f  ^f^  '"""■  ''^'  "'"J  ^e 
that  he  wa    speaL  «  f   *        ',"'''  '"'  '""'  "'"  ^•■"""f 

the  situation  when  D^  fl  •  .  ^^  "'""  ""Je«tood 
that  the  mone^  he  h^a'inZlT  T'  "  "'''""''•  ^''""•' 
'•That  'B  all  rUt  "  the  ^  "?  "  ^"''^'"^  '•'''^■ 

ham  in  the  cab  and  started  the  L^i'""'  "  """'''  "'"" 

-ble  squares  of  a  tLltlToo?^   wl?  ^ '" 
was  nowhere  to  be  found.     The  clerk   nfl  ^^ 

Bert  Pittsey,  and  gave  the  address  to  the  kriver  on  t^ 
box     He  stood  beside  the  front  wheels  unirth. 
said:  "Yes  'm-      t.,„'      ^  •     ■■    "'""^'^  unt"  the  man 
<s«.      u   !  "^    get  mside  now  an' we  '11  st«rf 

See  yuh  shut  the  door  "  "start. 

It  followed,  naturally,  that  Don  held  the  door  shut 


383 


DONA-DREAMS 


until  the  cab  ha<l  Ht„pp..|  at  Pitt«.y'.  number.    Th. 
aliBhting  from  th,.  .I.n.r  which  he  had  been  holdinc 
found  hunaelf  in  the  n.iddle  of  the  Btrt^t  and  had  dii 
culty  in  diotinifuishinK  the  house. 

Pitt8cy  Mid  afterwards:  "He  came  in  on  me  witho, 

knockinK,  and  he  looked  hh  if  he  had  juat  been  wal<en. 

up  and  did  n't  quite  know  where  he  was."    It  «tru( 

Don  at  the  time  that  Pittaey  behaved  aa  if  he  had  bee 

invited  out  to  see  a  thn^e-alarm  fire;  for,  after  hia  fin 

starmK  amnEement-half-riHen  from  the  dining  tabl, 

with  a  knife  in  hi.s  hand-he  shouted  and  snatched  a 

nis  overcoat  and  came  lau(rhin({. 

''Where  's  A./  Conroyf "  Don  asked,  in  the  carriage 

lie    s  running  a  quiet  wedding  of  hia  own,"  Ber 

said;  and  because  Don  could  not  make  sense  of  the  re 

ply,  he  did  not  ask  any  more  questions 

He  was  worried  by  a  sinking  sensation  in  his  stomacl 
which  had  made  it  difficult  for  him  to  judge  the  length 
and  reach  of  h.s  logs,  particularly  in  going  up  or  coming 
downstairs.  For  that  reason,  he  left  it  to  Pittsev  te 
te  1  Mrs.  McOahn  that  the  cab  was  at  the  Z^^nd 
when  the  voluble  landlady  appeared,  behind  her  voice 
-like  an  actor  who  is  heard  shouting  in  the  wings  be- 
fore  he  makes  his  entrance  on  the  stage-Don  sank  back 
against  the  cushions,  under  cover  of  her  garrulity  in  a 
personal  silence  that  was  aware  of  Margaret  at  hi^  side 
in  every  tingling  nerve. 

He  lost  her  again  when  he  came  on  f.s  confusing 
necessity  of  remembering  his  name,  his  .„^,  his  color 
and  the  number  of  times  that  he  had  been  married  be- 
fore-filling out  the  document  required  by  law.    He 


THE  VISIONARY  399 

«^ed  it  laboriou.ly  an.l  g.ve  up  the  pen  to  Pitt«.y 

irVn  T    ^K       •""  "'•"''  *^'""'  "  ""'le  in  the  minis- 

.fhtth     ?       R-by "-until  h.-  wfl*  Mked  to  repeat 
M^fTi,     r  ^  MarRaret,  as  if  i„  the  infant  cla«,  at 

«nt™tan"d      ^'''''/'fL'"'"'''""'-'  ^•"^^  "»>'«•'  »>«  d'^  « 
a,  if  ho  w      ♦      ""*  "•"  """  ""  •""•  «"«'■«•  •"•  clumsily 

Pittaey   wrung  his  hand.     "Good   boy  I"   he   aaid 
o/hriil^r*''    ^"^  ^-  «'""^''  ^-«  ^-^'^  -i'e 

"Now  "  Mrs.  MeOahn  announced,  "yuh  'II  all  con,. 
baek  an-  have  yer  weddin'  supper  wfthJe-tha 
woman  has  n't  burned  it  to  flitters."    Pitts' was  nav 

ened.  at  her  husband  as  ,f  she  did  not  quite  recognize 
h.m.       Come  along  with  yuh!    All  of  yuh!    Willv.h 
-ne.  Mr.  Cobbettr"    The  Reverend  J.  Sande^on  Cob 
be  t  excused  h.mself  in  a  low  voice  that  contracted  with 

aged.      Come  along,  Mr.  P.tty.    I  can't  offer  yuh  wed- 

.n  DontV'l  7""-"  '''""^  ^"^  '"e  desire  of  esrape 
n  Don  s  look  of  m.sery-"but  Dan  '11  make  y'  a  punch 
that   11  keep  yuh  grinnin'  fer  a  whole  honej^oon-" 
I  m  afraid  you  '11  have  to  make  it  a  wedding  break- 


390 


DON-A-DRBAMS 


"I  order 


fast,  Mrs.  MeGowan,"  he  excused  them 
supper  for  them  at  their  hotel  " 

<^'J^"""l^"  '"'''■  "^  ^'''''""^  I  '''  be  disappoint 
some  way.  Never  mind!  I  Ve  had  a  weddin'  an 
way.  She  cuddled  Margaret.  "Yuh  spoke  up  lil 
a  trump,  girl.  Come  along.  Drive  me  home,  no, 
Sure  I  m  an  ol'  fool."  She  had  suddenly  been  ove 
taken  m  her  turn  by  the  usual  desi«,  to  weep.  "I  s'po, 
Dan   1,  be  growlin'  fer  his  grub  like  a  bear  with  a  lo, 

^  uh  11  be  good  to  her,  Mr.  Gregg,  now.    She  's  give  yu 
all  she   s  got."  ^ 

She  crammed  with  good  advice  the  few  minutes  o 
the  dnve  back  to  her  home;  and  she  kissed  Margare 
at  the  cab-door,  and  ran  upstairs  for  the  girl's  valise- 
which  she  had  packed  ready-and  kissed  her  agai. 
when  she  came  back  with  it.  When  she  saw  that  Doi 
had  not  his  bag,  she  lost  her  tender  emotion  in  th. 
scolding  haste  of  helping  him  to  get  it.  By  this  tim 
her  husband  was  at  the  door  and  all  the  lodgers  were 
m  the  windows;  and  when  Pittsey  at  last  got  the  cab 
under  way  she  threw  an  old  slipper  after  them,  and 
hit  one  of  the  gaping  street-children  on  the  head  with  it 
Ihey  escaped  while  she  was  trying  to  comfort  the  in- 
jured youngster. 

"A  worthy  woman, "  Pittsey  said.    "Next  to  a  wake 
they  do  enjoy  a  wedding.  Where  am  I  taking  you  now  ?" 
They  did  not  know.     Don  explained,  rather  uncer- 
tainly that  he  had  not  made  any  arrangements  of  any 
sort.     'Mrs.  McGahn-"  ^ 

"Enough  said,"  Pittsey  interrupted.    "Let  me  dis- 


* 


THE  VISIONARY  ggj 

Doix  was  as  ineapabJe  of  argument  as  he  was  of  snrr 
gesting  any  better  plan-  and  I'itt«»„  "^  ^^  "t  sug- 
the  cab  at  a  street  corn";,  shl  h  "^  ^1  ''"""'■^ 
^^.  directions  to  tbe  eab.aTLTatS  tTet 

th^S;sirat;r^r^r;:^,^-'- - 

that  had  evidently  bee;  throtulitn,"' "wrlr 
we  'remarried'"  s  mm.      we    re— 

sh:;^n^h;:etn:t?^"--''-"^'^'*''ave!     We 

He  put  an  arm  about  her.     "Waiti"  j,„  .>     ,*  j 

Just  wait  till  Toi,  ;  he  exulted. 

We  VLThrCSr''""-  •^"^'^— ^--^^-wait.. 


JhV  W  ,*"""'?''  'f  *■""  ■'"«si°«tive  man  that  he  makes 
the  best  lover  in  the  world;  and  Don's  love  had  b^en 
for  so  long,  the  faith  of  his  life  that  evenThe  rea£ 


392 


DON-A-DRBAMS 


of  married  intercourse  did  not  more  than  ritualiz 
into  a  religion.  If  Margaret  had  been  unable  to  apj 
ciate  It  m  its  silent  devotions,  she  thrilled  and  gloi 
to  It  now  that  it  had  become  voluble  and  formuU 
And  like  so  many  women  who  marry  young,  her  mai( 
sentiment  was  a  pale  and  mild  affection  compared  y. 
the  passionate  surrender  of  the  wife.  Even  the  ( 
comforts  of  their  honeymoon  days  in  Pittsey's  flat  w 
lost  m  the  sunrise  flush  of  happiness  that  made 
beautiful.  Even  her  mother's  anger  softened  into 
natural  misunderstanding  which  the  girl  sympathij 
with  and  forgave. 

As  for  Don,  he  had  arrived  at  the  promised  lai 

His  great  dream  had  come  true.    He  felt  that  no  ho 

could  be  too  extravagant  since  this  impossibility  h 

come  to  pass.    He  hurried  home  at  night,  from  the  lo 

day's  separation,  eager  to  bill  and  coo,  to  plan  new  jo 

for  their  future  and  to  recall  the  vicissitudes  of  th« 

past.    He  had  to  discover  when  it  was  that  she  hi 

really,  first,  begun  to  love  him.    He  had  to  be  assur, 

endlessly  that  she  was  happy.    He  had  to  sit  over  the 

late  supper,  basking  in  the  comforts  of  domesticity,  co: 

trasting  these  full  days  of  their  companionship 'wit 

the    hungry    ones    he    had    come    through.      If    si 

smiled  at  the  wildness  of  his  castle-building,  he  repliec 

"Well,  would  you  have  believed,  a  month  ago,  thi 

we  'd  be  here  ?    You  leave  this  to  me.    I  '11  do  it.    Firs 

we  '11  move  into  a  comfortable  flat.    Then  I  '11  writ 

the  buUiest  play  ever-and  get  Miss  Morris  the  lead  i 

It.    Then  I  'm  going  to  get  Conroy  on  his  feet.    Thei 

as  soon  as  the  theater  closes  for  the  summer,  we  're  go 


m  ritualize  it 
able  to  appre- 
d  and  glowed 
id  formulary, 
g,  her  maiden 
Jmpared  with 
Uven  the  dis- 
ey'sflat  were 
iat  made  all 
tened  into  a 
sympathized 

omised  land, 
that  no  hope 
ssibility  had 
rem  the  long 
Ian  new  joys 
ides  of  their 
hat  she  had 
3  be  assured 
it  over  their 
jsticity,  con- 
onship  with 
h.      If    she 

he  replied : 
h  ago,  that 
lo  it.    First 

I  '11  write 
the  lead  in 
'eet.  Then, 
,  we  're  go- 


393 


THE  VISIONARY  ^^. 

i-' "^  '°"^^""'°'^   *°   Coulton-to  see  motheJ. 

that  sh  t^  ill  wtntT  '  Vr  '"='•'  """  "««  to'd 
that  she  had  ft  PoS  col  '^  """"^  ^*"*''^  ^'"^^^ 
out  what  had  apiVed  TnrPitr"'"r'^*''«°'^ 
•any:  "You  know'^l^'kC  if   Z  iT'''  ^r 

st%?Lrar  V  ''"""*•'«  -- 

ing  woman  [n  a  sl  V  "''"'  *''**  ^^e  was  lead- 

wr'ote  tThe  "  Bu    hf  dT/r  ''"f  T"^"^^  ^"'^  ''^ 
n.ueh  less  her  purpose-,n  hi"  k"''  ''"'  P"*" 

that  had  led  up  to  ^1^  ?      '"^'"^  ''^''"*  *!•«  «^e°ts 

»nderstandVhrsL'r/SerSLt:2:  f  "" 
^enee^of  life  from  which  She  had  stSellireSS 

Ma^irTa^Vh^furSed'^tr^'lT  '''  ^'^^ 

=rdo^;rtrdt."-"^-"'p"^^ 

^appy  in  thei^  ^  utd! r^lTvef  't^yT' 
in  one  n^n     ?■  "  endeavored  to  interest  Polk 

BonasifbyanTw^tw^ryrghrrrret 


394 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


be  studied  and  perhaps  reproduced.  He  drew  Don  o 
at  their  odd  meetings  in  the  box  office,  professed  to  i 
possibilities  in  Don's  "Winter"  as  a  sort  of  spectaeul 
extravasjanza,  asked  him  to  write  it  out,  and  quizz 
him,  with  the  soberest  countenance,  about  his  views 
life  Only  to  Pittsey,  Polk  confessed:  "I  don't  belie 
he  11  wr.tc  a  play,  if  he  lives  to  be  a  thousand  " 
"Why  not?" 

"I  '11  tell  you  why."  He  gulped  his  glass  of  whisk( 
an.l  water,  at  the  bar.  "For  the  same  reason  that  . 
woman  has  ever  written  a  big  play.  Did  you  ever  thii 
ot  It  ?  Lots  of  women  have  written  first-class  novel 
One  or  two  have  written  great  poetry.  Almost  none  hai 
written  any  nm.sic  worth  considering.  And  fewer  sti 
have  written  even  passable  plays.  And  I  '11  tell  yo 
why!  Because  women  are  sensitive  and  emotional  an 
artistic,  but  they  're  not  strong  enough  to  subdue  em. 
tion  to  the  ends  of  art,  d '  you  see  ?  And  the  more  stil 
(he  laws  of  your  art,  the  more  impossible  it  is  for  ther 
to  handle  it.  Music  's  bad  enough!  Pure  emotion  ex 
pressed  in  rules  of  harmony  that  are  like  mathematics 

But  a  play,  man!     Why  a  play  's  the  most  d , 

intricate  piece  of  mechanism  that  was  ever  put  together 

And  to  make  it  live,  you  have  to  be  the  master  of  lift 

as  well  as  the  slave  of  it."     He  laughed  abruptly 

That   s  the  truth  I  'm  telling  you.    I  just  read  it  ir 

a  newspaper." 

"And  you  think  that  's  the  trouble  with  Gregg?" 

"That  's  the  trouble  with  Gregg.  He  's  as  sensitive  as 

a  woman,  but  he  lives  like  a  woman,  and  he  '11  never 

write  a  d d  thing !    He  's  too  deep  in  his  own  emo- 


393 

's  worth 


THE  VISIONARY 

tions."     He  addod:  "Lucky  boKRar!     Life 

wh.le  when  you  can  ,ive  it  as  „,„elf  ashed*. 
Ue   a  happy,  certainly." 

"Happy!    Of  course,  he  '8  hannv     tt„  >   *      , 
hi-Tty'""'""'  ""«"'•  ••'  "'-P-  It  ■"  no,  l,u„ 

at  his  manuscript  of  "Winter"  nnli!  ,         *'' 

learned  the  whole  truth  of  Conroy  V'  adv  ^  H       '      f, 
and^he  preferred  rather  to  he  siLl  t^trr;;;':: 

now-anidle"r.^:er.^rri:f-S 


396 


DON-A-DREAMS 


where     When  Bert  Pittscy  wished  to  see  him  he  loc 
e.ther  .n  the  smoking-room  of  the  Mills  Hofe'l  souH 
W^hmgtoM  Square,  or  in  a  little  Italian  ea«  and  ^ 
hall,  near  by,  in  Sullivan  Street     Don   tZl, 
see ^m  at  this  .'charity  house/U C^S  tit  rTf^ 

when  he  saw  h.s  cousin  come  in;  and  Don  had  hurr 
away  ashamed  of  the  appearance  of  havingspTed 
his  old  friend 's  degradation.  ^  ^^ 

thoL*hT!lr  r'""'"'  """^  "  *™«'^'^y-  He  brooded  over  1 
thought  of  Conroy  wandering  about  those  foul  stre 
of  the  tenements,  alone,  or  befriended  only  by  a  worn 
more  unfortunate  and  unhappy  than  he  By  contn 
with  Don 's  own  happiness  the  picture  was  to  him  ap^ 
^°g.  He  remembered  their  boyish  companionship 
Cou^ton  and  the  day  that  Conroy  had  bro„V  Marg' r 
to  the  httle  ravine.  He  foresaw  another  meeting fh 
would  bnng  Margaret  to  Conroy  and  insen^  reda'' 
the  outcast  and  make  him,  in  time,  a  part  ofTnew  W 

once.  And  Don  foresaw  that  meeting  and  its  issu 
«o  vividly  that  he  believed  he  had  only  io  arrange  Ti 
order  to  make  his  most  impossible  hopes  come  true 

Head.       I  don  t  believe  you  can  do  anything  for  hin 
unless  you  put  new  nerves  into  his  stomach.    I  taltc 
to  him  after  you  left  us,  that  time.    He  knows  wha 
he  s  doing  but  he  can't  stop.    The  craving 's  too  stm. 
for  him.    You  had  better  leave  him  alone  "  ^ 

But  ,f  we  were  to  get  him  away  from  it  r    If  we 
were  to  get  him  into  a  sanitarium ?" 

■   "If!    If!    How  are  you  to  do  it?    As  soon  as  you 


him,  he  looked 
lotel,  south  of 
iffS  and  music 
0,  had  gone  to 
y  had  refused 
smoking-room 
I  had  hurried 
■ing  spied  on 

)ded  over  the 
!  foul  streets 
by  a  woman 
By  contrast 
o  him  appal- 
inionship  in 
:ht  Margaret 
aeeting  that 
ibiy  reclaim 
f  a  new  life 
!y  had  been 
id  its  issue 
rrange  it  in 
ne  true, 
y  shook  his 
ug  for  him 
•    I  talked 
nows  what 
too  strong 

it?    If  we 

on  as  you 


THE  VISIONARY  397 

try  to  interfere  with  him,  he  flies  nff  ♦!,„  u     ,.       .. 

nnl  *K        ?.  •  ""^  ^°y°°«  •'•^•^  to  help  him  " 

■Uon  thought  it  over     "Tf  t„„ 
you  join  me?"  ^  ""''  ""^"^^  "  P'"".  «'" 

Pittsey  nodded.    "Sure  enough.    I  'm  game." 
fori        I  '""^^"^  '*''"''  "^  ""  P''''«t'««'  plan-    He  could 

hreffL?bu°t  not  T'T.  ^"•=™^^^"'  eonelu'Lr    r 
Ills  enorts,  but  not  the  details  of  a  sin-'K-  mptli«,l  ^r  of 

cSaXt:- '' T-r -«' *^-  -h^f 

occur  ed  to  hm  IZ  ""  "'  "  """""''  P^-^ure 
Chr^mas^^^,-----;;M«^^ 

sto'-^l^^^n '"'' """  ''°"''''"  ^^'  had  heard  the  whole 
story  from  Don,  and  it  had  not  left  her  hopeful  "Dn 
you  think  he  'd  come  1"  ='  "opeiul.      Do 

BeZo'heln  V  '^'  t^^'  ""^  "'"'"*  "•    ^  "■"«*  get 
aerttohelp.    If  we  could  once  get  him  here- " 
1  hope  he  won't  spoil  the  dinner  " 
He  did  not  sympathize  with  this  consideration  of  the 
young  hostess.    "Nonsense!"  he  cried     "m„t^        ! 

him.    I  must  ask  Bert  "  ^  ^ 

the  Chr.stn.as  numbers  of  the  illustrated  English 


im 


iSi 


398  DON-A-DRBAMS 

papers,  full  of  just  such  pictures  as  Prankie  an, 
used  to  tack  up  on  the  walls  of  their  pla^  ranT 
had  come  to  him  with  such  an  almost  tearful  me. 
of^^he  hfe  he  had  left,  that  he  saw  in  them,  now," 
e.'ful  agent  to  help  him  in  his  appeal  to  Conrov     " 

An  i   I  J  *'""*  P^P*"  "•"tl'e'-  ««"»,  as  an  exc 

And  ,f  he  won't  see  me,  I  '11  mail  them  to  hlT 
wriie  him  a  letter."  ' 

He  imagined  the  letter-a  Christmas  letter  of 
quent  good.f.eIing  and  a  manly  offer  to  letTKones 
andbegmthefutureafresh.    Remembering hiSk 
l.e  had  fa.th  in  the  influence  of  the  season  of  pea  e 
goodwall  to  aid  him  in  his  miracle  of  regeneratir. 

Shrttf "  TT  "^  °°^  "'  ''"'''  unseasonable  v 
nigh  s  that  make  Christmas  week  in  New  York  a  time 
dnzzhng  misery  and  bedraggledne^.  Down  a^onTt 
tenements  the  streets  were  brimful  of  muddy  sTush 
restles  of  the  elevated  railroad  dripped  a  fl";  d  grim 
he  street  lights  struggled  against  the  fog  with  " 

tt  evilTdo^r  'fir'  ""''"^  '""^  '"""P  -' '-*en 
the  evil  odors  of  the  quarter  to  a  pungency  that  seem, 

to  Don  to  reach  his  palate.  He  shive^d,  with  his  coH 
mder  v"'  "f  '"  '^""'"''  "'  Christmas  pap 
onblM     T'  *T"^  '''  ""'''''"''  himself  that  aH  th 

scattered    -'^'  ^^   '"''^  ^^  h'«  '°"S  day's  work  o 

scat  ered     assignments"  and  inclined  to  be  sarcasti 

slipping  on  the  uneven  flagstones  on  which  the  fog  ha. 


rankie  and  ha 
•oom ;  and  they 
Jarful  memory 
n,  now,  a  pow- 
!onroy.  "I  'n 
'e  a  talk  with 
as  an  excuse. 
1  to  him,  and 

letter  of  elo- 
et  bygones  be 
?  his  Dickens, 
of  peace  and 
leratir.i 

sasonable  wet 
ork  a  time  of 
n  among  the 
iy  slush;  the 
fluid  grime; 
ag  with  the 
ir  freshened 
that  seemed 
th  his  collar 
;mas  papers 
that  all  this 
uld  aid  him 
ried  to  con- 
i''s  work  on 
)e  sarcastic 
t  in  silence, 
he  fog  had 


THE  VISIONARY  399 

congealed  in  a  film  of  ice    Whan  * »,„  .    , 

windowed  block  of  he  S  Hnt."^' *°  *"' """•^- 
formal  as  a  prison  of  c^  P  Sey  2.  ^y^^'^  -^ 
s'de  for  me  here  until  I  ^ee  him  tt  -n  "  """*  ""*■ 
».e  for  bringing  you  if  {  uL  ™u  in  -'  "  ''""^'  ^"^ 

eour:"gedtt1;ink 'thaVan""^  ^  ■"'""**«'  '"'  ^  - 
where'^hey  had  planned  1  r  f  "*  *""^  '""""  ^""-^ 
and  playing  J„£e  at  onJ  of  h"  Uttrt^n"  ''""'''' 
room  of  homeless  ln«f!L  *f  •  "'"  *"'''''«  »»  "^at 
Vile  smells  TZ^IZ.T  Tjnt  IZT'  '"^ 

comfortable  chair"  J,  h  ^7  '*',  '*"""  ^'"^  ""^  ^*>> 
ened  dismally  he  repented'  I  "'  ?/  "'""°^  '^^^h- 
in  alone,  for  he  had  no  Sh       ?f  "''"^'^  ^"^  *°  S" 

"Oh 'say'!"    Pittsey  answered  angrily.    "It  's  not 


I 


400 


DON-A-DREAMS 


a  quMtion  of  what  he  saysl    Leave  hhfl  alone!    He 
enjoying  thedelighto  of  hi.  private  inferno  hot  mot 
without  M  coming  down  here  to  poke  it  up  for  him. 
Would  n  t  he  come  to  the  dinner?" 
Pittsey  was  walking  up  the  street,  Don  hanging  ba 
reluctantly.    "No.    He  won't  come  to  the  dinner     ] 
does  n  t  even  want  to  hear  that  there  's  a  dinner  i 
him  to  come  to.    Say!"    He  rounded  on  Don  suddenl 
He  has  the  willies,  if  you  know  what  that  is.    Tou 
only  drive  him  into  trouble-just  as  you   Ve  alwa 
done.    And  It  s  a  dirty  shame  to  be  bothering  him     V 
can  t  do  anything  for  him,  and  he  knows  it.    He  can 
do  anything  for  himself-and  he  knows  it.    What  1 
needs  is  chloroform  to  put  him  out  of  his  misery, 
don  t  believe  in  this  particular  form  of  vivisection 
yon  want  to  know!"  ' 

"It-  It  seems  to  me  that  if  we  're  ever  going  to  g( 
him  away,  we-  we  ought  to  be  able  to  do  it  now-whil 
he  8 — " 

"  Yes  I    Well,  if  you  could  see  his  face  when  he  's  try 
ing  not  to  talk  about  it,  you  would  n't  relish  the  job  ' 
Don  turned  over  the  papers  in  his  hand,  looking  dowi 
at  them.    "I  wish  you  'd  taken  these  in  to  him." 
Go  and  take  them  yourself.    Do ! " 
''Is  n't  there  any  place  I  could  leave  them  for  him' 
I   d  rather  write." 
Pittsey  laughed  harshly.    "By  all  means,  write  1" 

Could  I  leave  them  at  the  hotel?" 
"No    He  's  not  known  at  the  hotel  any  more  than  a 
hundred  other  tramps  that  come  in  there  to  get  warm  " 
Don  winced.    "How  about  the  place-the  other  place 
Where  you—" 


ri 


THE  VISIONAHY 


like  about  if     T  'ii     \      ■  ""  "^n  do  what  you 

"Yes." 

"Come  on  then." 

out  a   foothold   on  1      '1^^^^ 

saw  Pittsey  pass  the  pape.^    ver  the  bar  an^r    ' .  °! 

to  the  door  again     And  w,.  h 7      ,!.         ^  *"™  "'^"^ 

^  aeHin.    And  with  a  sudden  resolution,  Don 


<02  DON-A-DHEAMS 

•tumbled  down  the  »tep«  and  met  him.    "I  •„,  goin 
wa,tand«eehim"    he  said.    "  V«„  need  n 't  4 ' 
Lttsey   passed   him   without   replying,   and   di 
Kared  up  the  steps  i„to  the  tog.    Don  wem  fn  «hu 
^loor  behind  him  and  faced  a  tragic  adventu,; 


XI 

He  wa,  awaro  at  once,  that  the  bar-room  wa«  only  a  . 
of  oyer  to  a  larger  music  hall  in  which  he  coul.l  .^ 
aud.ence  seaU.l  at  tables  before  a  little  stage  on  ^ 
a  woman  stood  to  sing;  and  he  hurried  into  f^T, 

w.th  audacty     A  soiled  waiter  polished  off  the  be 
a.ns    rom  the  table  top  and  bent  U,  take  his  or^ 
He  said,  throatily :  "BrinR  me  a  ciRar  " 

tail'-Tr""  "  "'""'  *'"'  **"^"  ">'•'  hes-a  long  "ri 
a.      Ital,an  c.^ar.    He  lit  it  an.i  drew  one  puff  th 

had  the  taste  of  scorched  rags.    He  held  it,  fuming  b 

fore  h.m  and  waited  for  Conroy  to  appear,  watciir 
he  animated  faces  of  Italians  whose  excited  volubu" 

had  no  meaning  for  him,  and  listening  to  the  screamin 

TJT:1'  *''^™"»«t"-  -""  ™ng  with  a  Itort 
of  mouth  that  m,ght  have  b«.„  studied  in  a  dentist 
chair.    It  was  all  as  unreal  to  him  as  lunacy;  and  a 
Old  man  with  a  basket  of  macar,K,„s  on  his  arm,  wh 
wandered  from  table  to  table  mumbling  "Bene  cotti 

wrin'klT'       'TV"    •''•"•'^'     faee-as'   brow::" 
wrinkled    as   a    bake.l    apple-that    made    the    whol, 


'  I  'm  going  to 
n't  g. ay." 
JT,   and  diiap- 
nt  in,  shut  the 
mature. 


as  only  a  sort' 
!  coulil  see  an 
SRe  on  which 
nto  t'mt  (,  ill 
er  gathering. 
m  trembling 
oflf  the  beer 
le  his  order. 

a  long  "rat- 
ae  puff  that 

fuming,  be- 
ir,  watching 
<i  volubility 
e  screaming 
a  distortion 

a  dentist's 
cy;  and  an 
8  arm,  who 
Bene  cotti, 
irown  and 
the    whole 


THE  VISIONARY 


403 

rs;rt:,arrreerii.r:tTf[,  't--  *°  ^-• 

""t  the  matches  wi  iw  "  , "'  V  .'i  "''"  ^""^  •"""""f 
cigar,  making  an       ear      '  .    '  "■'"''  '"  "»•>'  '"• 

who  drank  fLn  a  ^  ^7..  "''"'''"''■r''*  "  "«'«  «'''> 
'iP-  with  a  .lirty  ha  m.  .  r  l"'""'^  '""'  '''•'■'"'  ''<t 
foreign   faces,     he     ;"^^;';*"', '""^^'-  ""-"  -P-«t  the 

'-'-'vements  ,.f  stl '  .T  ',:  T?"'™'  ""^  "«"'<'<■" 
-ni-human  ap^Z  „'  ^  1^" '•"^  '■"•  "i".  only  the 
tricks.  "^  *"  "'""y  "lonkeya  doing 

"n'ir.,'::Cdtt:'rr;:^  ♦''••'■'••■'«> • 

-beaten  upon  TriutM?- """""'""  "'  ""''•''« 
ff-o  foul  smells-wh,n  r  "  '""'  •""''"'^^"t'^^d  by 

of  the  hall,  and  Ln  due  rn"";™'""'  "*  ""'  ^""■•""- 
He  looked  up  unde"  his  fin  "  f  '"  '"''"  '""  *"-• 
himself  at  a  tabragain  th  '■'"'^'  •^""''"^  '""'  "•''"'"' 
H-aiter  turned  a^y™  t^r'"'  """■  ''''"'°  *''^' 
pale  as  despair    sLbbv    ,':'  ""     '  ""'  '"'"'  "" 

I>on  shut  hfs    yes     S'h    ■;"  ."T'/'*'''"'"  "•'"•'''«'^- 
thetouchof  tearwaJJli;;:;;  '"'  '^■"'  *"-'  ^  "'«' 

a  i^Xll'lnr;^^^^^^  ""^  -'-ne.l  with 

had  left  at  the  ha- an,^  r  f """  ^'"<'''  P'««ey 

understand  the  ma'nTtln:^'  "'''"  7'"^'  *^^'"«  »» 
and  tried  to  smilTa^d  'nM  '"  ^""'''"'  ""^^'^J 

the  glass  at  a  gulp I^  ,et  1  d",'  T'  .  ""  "'""'^  ''"'^ 
'"in«  on  the  taVwTll  SltX^rs"''  "'^'^'  '^'•- 

;a^^~^;;::^^'--;--;-he.^^ 


404 


DON-A-DREAMS 


frowned  at  her.  Her  voice  rang  in  the  little  hall  w 
the  deep  notes  of  the  old  song.  It  soared  with  1 
triumph  of  "Senda  her  veeetorious,  happa  an'  glor 
ons,"  and  Conroy  drew  down  the  brim  of  his  hat  a 
muttered.  It  faded  into  a  whisper,  sweet  as  old  me 
ories,  with  its  prayerful  "Goda  save  or  ca-ween 
And  Conroy  tried  to  drown  it  in  the  draught  of  poiso 
ous  whiskey  that  was  left  in  his  glass. 

For  that  song  had  come  on  him— as  it  had  come  i 

Don— with  the  perfume  of  old  days  from  the  life  ! 

had  lost.    It  had  seized  and  shaken  him,  as  rememben 

music  will.    He  called  for  more  drink,  fearfully  awa 

of  the  approach  of  that  self-horror  against  which  1 

had  been  fighting  when  Pittsey  came  to  aid  it— afra 

of  the  weakness  of  vain  regret,  struggling  up  from  tl 

terrible  despondency  that  was  clutching  at  him.    Ar 

the  tune  haunted  him  with  the  loyal  voices  of  youtl 

singing  together,  with  the  clink  of  social  glasses  at 

college  dinner  drinking  the  queen's  health,  with  the  fi 

note  of  a  military  band  across  the  sunny  campus.    E 

fought  against  it,  working  the  muscles  of  his  face.    H 

drank  more  liquor  desperately,  his  brain  beginning  1 

reel  in  the  vertigo  of  drunkenne-ss,  with  vivid  pictun 

of  home,  the  laugh  of  voices  dearly  familiar  to  him,  th 

Hash  of  smiling  faces— as  confused  as  in  a  dream,  an 

like  a  dream  stirring  a  torturing  regret.     He  tried  t 

listen  to  the  woman  singing  "The  Star  Spangled  Bat 

ner,"  and  for  an  instant  he  got  it  clear  in  his  ears,  bu 

the  riot  of  memory  burst  in  again  and  he  fought :.  baoli 

struggling  with  trembling  lips  and  fingers  that  twitch^ 

on  his  glass. 

He  turned  frantically  to  the  bundle  of  papers  on  th 


THE  VIST  WART  405 

old  fond  pieturps  nf  =n„    ^,^^-    "^°d  these  were  the 
to  be     The  il  ^"""^  Christmas  had  aspired 

eo.4d?;s:T:r;~oistr  "h'^.r'^-  °' 

Christmas  sports  stur,<,T^T:  ^""''"as  h^l'days  and 
the  pages  in  a  rat  e  of  h  T"'''  '""■  '''  *""-" 
einated  And  when  Lll^rf'  ':'""'  ''^'''  P'""-  ^''^■ 
a  nightmare  liffarounVh  m  l"''  ""l  *''^'"  ''^  f™"'' 
i"  his  ears  chokin7h?rn  ™;.  ?'°^ '^'''^'''■''''"t  -"««'« 
odor  of  un;.etn'C'ie  ^^'Ip^ed  t'  '""*  ^"'^  ''' 
an  oath  and  threw  it  on  the  floor  J^T  "^  ^"'^ 
steadily  and  staggered  out  of  the  hall     ^"  '^  "^^  ""- 


DON-A-DREAMS 


406 

from  one  saloon  to  another,  attempting,  by  stupefyi 
h.msel£  m  a  wild  debauch,  to  escape  the  remS 

«:"  th  T'  ''"'■  ^'T- «"  -""^  ---d  "hi 

tTat  Tlf        T^  *""^  ^^  ""'*''•''■•  «°d  the  mon, 

went  He".  "  /""  7'^  "  *^"'  ^^''"'^  ^im  as  1 
went.  He  came  to  a  saloon  full  of  negroes  in  low, 
Sulhvan  street;  and  in  paying  the  barkeeper  he  dTe 
out  a  handful  of  bills  and  displayed  them  with  a  reel 
o^ness  that  had  its  inevitable  issue,  for  when  he 

street,  and  the  fog  closed  over  the  thugs  and  their  vi< 

that^I^H't"""""'"^  '•'  ''"'  ^''"'"'  'y«S  '°  ^  passagewa^ 
that  led  to  a  rear  tenement,  his  pockets  rifled  insensibi 
from  the  blow  of  a  black-jack  on  the  back  of  his  head 

tween  .  f'  ^°T^ '"^  ">  *e  hospital,  unconscious,  be- 
being  the  blnndermg  cause  of  each  step  in  his  cousin's 

Miss  Morris's  silence  had  left  him  no  doubt  of  her  dis 
gust  of  him.  All  the  failures  of  his  life  had  crushed 
down  on  him  together  and  buried  him  in  the  deptZ 

t„?o  to  he'   °1      '^'"'  •^''"•^  ^'^  ^"^'''S  *«^'«.  ""able 

ritn  L  K  .  u''™  ^"^  '"^  '"^""'•■y  "*  his  dead  past, 
riw  h  !.^""  ^"'  ^''^  """"'^  "'  his  incapacity 
He  saw  his  mother  with  that  face  of  sorrow  which  had 
so  often  looked  out  on  him  from  his  dreams.  He  saw 
his  father  leaning  across  the  cluttered  dining-table 
glaring  at  him  in  angry  accusation.    He  saw  MirMor: 


THE  VISIONAEY  457 

Rajah's  Rnby,"  dumbly  trncical     Th«  J;     .  » 

c-rt  taw  «.«^,  £" ;  il'dS"' 3".:. 

an  appearance  of  unreality,  of  an  illusion  fL  wM 
he  had  escaped.    The  illusion  of  life  f  «■»  wnicli 

of  ft^n*""^  "''^  '*  *""  ^"^  ''''"''  him  with  the  eyes 


408 


DON-A-DREAMS 


manonettes     Overhead,  the  moon  and  the  stars  stood  in 
he,r  appointed  places  amid  the  mystery  of  space;  and 

mocked  at  by  the  qmet  sarcasm  of  old  night  "Lifel" 
he  thought  "Lit.,  the  great  illusion !"  Ilesmiled  the 
densive  phantom  of  a  smile;  and  that  smile,  he  felt 
was  to  be,  forever  after,  the  secret  aspect  and  expres-' 
s  on  of  h>s  thought ;  his  happiness  was  to  be  of  that  com- 
plexion; h.s  failures,  his  sorrows,  his  tragedies  were  to 
wear  at  last  something  of  that  same  face 

It  reminded  him  of  his  Emerson,  and  he  reached  the 
volume  from  the  row  before  him,  unseeingly,  his  mind 
busy  with  h.s  thoughts.     He  turned  to  a  remembered 
passage  in  the  essay  on  "Illusions."    He  read-  "There 
•s  no  chance  and  no  anarchy  in  the  universe      All  is 
system  and  gradation.     Every  god  is  there  sitting  in 
h.s  sphere.     The  young  mortal  entera  the  hall  of  the 
firmament;  there  he  is  alone  with  them  alone,  they 
pouring  on  him  benedictions  and  gifts  and  beckoning 
him  up  to  their  thrones.     On  the  instant,  and  inces- 
santly, fall  snowstorms  of  illusions.    He  fancies  himself 
in  a  vast  crowd  which  sways  this  way  and  that  and 
whose  movements  and  doings  he  m^ist  obey;  he  fancies 
himself  poor,  orphaned,  insignificant.    The  mad  crowd 
drives  hither  and  thither,  now  furiously  commanding 
this  thing  to  be  done,  now  that.     Wliat  is  he  that  he 
should  resist  their  will,  and  think  or  act  for  himself? 
fivery  moment  new  changes  and  new  showers  of  de- 
ception to  baffle  and  distract  him.    And  when,  by  and 
by,  for  an  instant,  the  air  clears  and  the  cloud  lifts  a 
little,  there  are  the  gods  still  sitting  around  him  en 
their  thrones— they  alone  with  him  alone." 


THE  VISIONARY  409 

The  air  had  cleared!    The  cloud  had  lifted!     The 

v.«.onary  had  caught  the  first  full  sight  of  that  vision 

wh,ch  was  to  make  the  world  less  real  to  him  thereafter 

than  the  matter  of  his  .houffht.    The  idealist  had  figh 

t.es  to  his  possession  of  the  great  ideal.  The  dreamer 
had  made  hfe  .tself  the  dream.  Don,  full-grown,  ,  s 
ready  to  achieve  his  destiny. 

At  the  ringing  of  the  electric  bell  of  his  apartment 
he  rose  mechanically;  and  still  staring  before  hin  with 
blind  eyes,  he  went  to  open  his  door 

Bert  Pittsey  was  shaking  the  snow  from  his  hat  brim 
n  the  outer  hall.    "They  've  operated  on  Conroy  "T 
said  in  a  manner  that  was  roughly  apologetic.    "lie  '11 
recover.    I  thought  you  'd  like  to  know  " 

Don    passed    his    hand    across    his    eye...      "Yes 
Ihanks,"  he  said  thickly.    "Won't  you  come  inf' 
Bert  studied  him.     "Were  you  asleep?" 
No-o." 

"Walt  was  afraid  you  might  be.    He  would  n't  come 
up.    He   s  downstairs." 
Don  shook  his  head,  meaninglessly 

from^  ?o\t''   '"  ^''  '"'""■    "'  ^''  '"'"'  "'"'^  ^°'  y°^- 

He  disappeared  down  the  stairs.    Don  went  back  into 

his  room  and  sat  down  to  wait,  in  a  sort  of  numb  indif- 

terence.     He  reached  an  empty  pipe  and  held  it  with 

he  s^d  "'  ''^'*'°''  ^''  P"'''*^  ""'■     "C"""*  i°'" 

Walter  Pittsey  smiled  down  at  him.    "I  was  afraid 

that  y..u  might  be  in  bed.    I  saw  Po'l:  this  evening        ' 

says  there  's  'something'  i„  your  'Winter '-something 


410 


DON-A-DBEAMS 


that  he  thinks  he  could  work  up  into  an  extravaganza 
I  .  vyants  to  see  you  about  it.  He  'll  probaoly  offer  to 
buy  It  troMi  you.    What  do  you  say  ? " 

He  waited,  expecting  the  boyi>,h  delight  which  did 
not  appear.    Don  did  uot  raise  his  eyes.    ''He  can  hf;^ 

M-"  ""'"'"•     "''''"''  ^"^  '^""'*  -«■«  ™"«h  ''='- 

ge;MaS,:::'r'''^''''-''«'*'^-.-'tyou.  i-,, 

er  P„tsey  looked  aroun.l  at  Bert.     Tbey  exchanged 

glances  of  armisi-d  Deinlevifv      'i-i,  AL"aUf,eu 

lanrfiP,!    '<T7     .         I'l'Pltxity.      ihe  younger  brotlier 

laughed  :     He  's  one  too  many  for  nie." 

But  if  Don  was  not  enthusia.stie,  Margaret,  in  dress- 

Tpfrr-'Oh'  D"",'^r'"  T'  ''■'"'  '-^'-■'^  '"«  '-"f 

Edidh  sf;;^,..,ter?:u  "^^^-^  K''-^'- 

w„if     *.,t  It"  nie!     lell  me-everything!" 

Walter  told  her  what  little  there  was  to  tell ;  and  Bert 
ackU^d  h,s  quota  of  good  news  about  Conroy  '«£ 
father  arr.ved  at  six  o'clock.  There  was  a  pressure  on 
the  bram.  They  operated  to  relieve  it.  and  they  'r^ 
so.ng  to  take  hin,  ho„,o  as  soon  as  he  can  be  moved  H^ 
wants  to  go."  He  turned  to  Don.  "That  bun.p  on  the 
head  has  done  the  business  for  him  " 
Don  smiled,  crookedly.    "1-1  hope-"    He  did  not 

and  put  his  face  m  his  hands.     "I  'm_  i  Ve  had  a 
bad  day,  I  guess,"  he  faltered.    "I  feel  .     .         Ser 
•     •     .    knocked  out  myself  " 
Margaret  went  to  him,  and  knelt  on  the  floor  beside 


THE  VISIO\i\Ry 


411 

"Don," 


him,  and  put  her  ar,n  aor.,.s.s  his  sh„„hlen,. 
she  wh,spered.    "What  is  it?    Are  y....  ill y- 

He  did  not  answer. 

She  tried  to  draw  his  hands  fro„.  his  fa.-o,  to  see  him 
She  found  his  finders  wet.    "O-oh"'    Sho  l,„.  ■ 
at  the  Pittseys,  her  lip.,  tre.„bli„."  ^^"^ ''""^"'  "» 

-IS . rsih^-Lir '•'■'"  ""^' •'■''•■■'- ™---- 

realued  ,,l  Dons  dreams.  Polk  had  found  "some 
thm,,..  ,u  ,„  ..wiuter";  l,e  had  found,  in  faet  t  J 
promise  wh.eh  the  years  were  to  develop  an.l  o  tool^ 
the  process  of  development  in  hand.     The  story     f 

atie"eXsT  '"^  "'^""^  ""^"*  ^""""-'  '>■  *'■'  ^- 

ai.„i  „  "  possible  .suece.ssor  ti-  tlie 

Shakespeare  of  'The  Tempe.sf  and  'TI,,.  m;T 
Ni^ht.  Dream-,"  or  only  "'aJe.::!,  t:,  ^i  — 

technique.        He  says  himself,  to  Margaret-  "I  don't 
know-and  I  don't  eare-what  I  am.     At  one  time    I 

h.  w'^''"  !;""*  '"''  P''"'"''"'  *"  Miss  Morris.     She  came 
back  from  San  Pranci.sco  to  play  the  lead  in  "ThlMa"  « 

ned  Kuffraan,  she  was  already  known  as  "the  most 
beautiful  woman  on  the  American  stage",  Kuffmanhas 


412 


DON-A-DREAMS 


It  'sbad  ta!t.  t        '        '?'"'"''=  "*^^  '"•"ther  is  in  it 
th.J  he'  e.ea.  ^^LJ^^  ^^•""^  "^^  of 

manage       department  of  his  father^s  b„  inl  and  F 

to  hide  fro.  UraslfhCLf;.:ZlZ    fXanlt 
he  ,s  of  h,«  other  son,  "the  dramatist/'    Don  s«Il  finds 

ZI  ,     rr'  ^'"'  ^''^  ^''  remembered  smill    nl 

HT«s--n:^----f 

finds  h:m  still  a  lover,  still  a  poet  in  spite  of  any  disU 
Jus^on^ment,  stdl  a  .entle  solitary,  L  stirDoti 


8852  4 


ind  though 
»  stiff,  tli<> 
i  classical 
cwhat  pa- 
whips  her 
I-     It  was 
and  Gala- 
ng  paper, 
0  write  it 
lot  attack 
r  is  in  it 
the  news- 
hears  of 

noon  "  in 
down,  is 
I,  and  F. 
'  firm  of 
;er  tries 
frank  as 
:in  finds 
w,  wait- 
e.    The 
le  nurs- 
I.    Mar. 
5  to  the 
'Faerie 
of  the 
n— she 
y  disil- 
Don-a- 


